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C M IM. E T E 

WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS. 




THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 



ly CcJ ^ '^ /V7£ /t?- /c£^^ -^-» -* - 



THE COMPLETE WORKS 



OF 



ROBERT BURNS 



CONTAINING HIS 



POEMS, SONGS, AND CORRESPONDENCE; 



% i^to fife 0f i\t %mi, 



NOTICES, CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL. 



By ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
\ 



ELEGANTLY ILLUSTRATED. 



BOSTON : 

LEE AND SHEPARD. 

NEW YORK: 
LEE, SHEPARD, & DILLINGHAM. 

1875. 



Ft 

WR. HUTCHESON. 



• ARCHIBALD HASTIE, ESQ., 

ttJSMBER CF PARLIAMENT FOR PAISLBT 

THIS 

EDITION 
Ti/E WORKS AND MEMOIRS OF A GREAT POET, 

IN WHOSE SENTIMENTS OF FREEDOM HE SHARES, 

AND WHOSE PICTURES OF SOCIAL AND DOMESTIC LIFE HE LOVES, 

28 BESPECTFULLY AND GBATEFULLY UT80BI6JBD 

BT 

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



DEDICATION 

TO THE 

NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN 

OF THB 

CALEDONIAN HUNT 



[On tlie title-page of the second or Edinburgh edition, were these words: "Poems, shiefly i\ 
Ihe Scottish Dialect, by Robert Burns, printed for the Author, and sold by William Creech, 1787." 
The motto of the Kilmarnock edition was omitted ; a very numerous list of subscribers followed : 
fhe volume was printed by the celebrated Smellie.] 

My Lords and Gtentlemen : 

A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest ambition is to sing m 
his country's service, where shall he so properly look for patronage as to the illustrious 
names of his native land : those who bear the honours and inherit the virtues of their 
ancestors ? The poetic genius of my country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah 
did Elisha — ^at the plough, and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me 
sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my 
native tongue ; I tuned my wild, artless notes as she inspired. She whispered mo to 
come to this ancient metropolis of Caledonia, and lay my songs under your honoured 
protection : I now obey her dictates. 

Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, my Lords and 
Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedication, to thani: you for past favours : that path ia 
80 hackneyed by prostituted learning that honest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I 
present this address with the venal soul of a servile author, looking for a continuation 
of those favours : I was bred to the plough, and am independent. I come to claim the 
common Scottish name with you, my illustrious countrymen ; and to tell the world that 
r glory in the title. I come to congratulate my country that the blood of her ancient 
heroes stilV runs uncontaminated, and that from your courage, knowledge, and public 

(7) 



flii DEDICATION. 



spirit, slie may expect protection, wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to 

proffer my warmest wishea to the great fountain of honour, the Monarch of the universe, 

for your welfare and happiaess. 

When you go torth to waken the echoes, in the ancient and favourite amusement 

of your forefathers, may Measure ever be of your party : and may social joy await yoiir 

return! When harassed in courts or camps with the jostlings of bad men and bad 

measures, may the honest consciousness of injured worth attend your return to your 

Viative seats ; and may domestic happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at youi 

gates I May corruption shrink at your kindling indignant glance j and may tyranny 

in the ruler, and licentiousness in the people, equally find you an inexorable foe ! 

I have the honour to be, 

With the sincerest gratitude and highest respect, 

My Lords and Gentlemen, 

Your most devoted humble servant, 

ROBERT BURNS. 
Edinbuboh, April 4, 1787. 



PREFACE, 



I CANNOT give to my country this edition of one of its favourite poets, \vitliom 
stating that I have deliberately omitted several pieces of verse ascribed to Burna 
by other editors, who too hastily, and I think on insufficient testimony, admitted them 
among his works. If I am unable to share in the hesitation expressed by one of them 
on the authorship of the stanzas on " Pastoral Poetry,'^ I can as little share in the feel- 
ings with which they have intruded into the charmed circle of his poetry such composi 
tions as " Line* on the Ruins of "Lincluden College," " Verses on the Destruction of thg 
Woods of Drumlaurig," " Verses written on a Marble Slab in the Woods of Aberfeldy," 
and those entitled "The Tree of Liberty/' These productions, with the exception of 
the last; were never seen by any one eveu in the handwriting of Burns, and are one and 
all wanting in that original vigour of language and manliness of sentiment which dis- 
tinguish his poetry. With respect to "The Tree of Liberty" in particular, a subject 
dear to the heart of the Bard, can any one conversant with his genius imagine that he 
vnlcomed its growth or celebrated its fruit with such " capon craws'* as these ? 

" Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit, 

Its virtues a' can tell, man; 
It raises man aboon the brute, 

It mak's him ken himsel', man. 
Gif ance the peasant taste a bit, 

He's greater than a lord, man, 
An' wi' a beggar shares a mite 

0' a' he can afford, man." 

There are eleven stanzas, of which the best, compared with the " A man's a' man for a' 
that" of Barns, sounds like a cracked pipkin against the "heroic clang" of a Damascug 
blade. That it is extant in the handwriting of the poet cannot be taken as a proof that 
't is his own composition, against the internal testimony of utter want of all the marks 
oy which we know him — the Burns-stamp, so to speak, which is visible on all that 
€ver came from his pen. Misled by his handwriting, I inserted in my former editioa 
of his works an epitaph, beginning 

" Here lies a rose, a budding rose," 

(9) 



PREFACE. 



the composition of Shenstone, and which is to be found in the churchyard of Hales- 
Owen : as it is not included in every edition of that poet's acknowledged works, Burns, 
who was an admirer of his genius, had, it seems, copied it with his own hand, and hence 
my error. If I hesitated about the exclusion of "The Tree of Liberty," and itiS 
three false brethren, I could have no scruples regarding the fine song of " Evan Banl^s,'* 
?laimed and justly for Miss Williams by Sir Walter Scott, or the humorous song called 
'' Sbelah O'Neal," composed by the late Sir Alexander Boswell. When I have stated 
that I have arranged the Poems, the Songs, and the Letters of Burns, as nearly as 
possible in the order in which they were written; that I have omitted no piece of either 
verse or prose which bore the impress of his hand, nor included any by which his higt 
reputation would likely be impaired, I have said all that seems necessary to be said, save 
that the following letter came too late for insertion in its proper place : it is characteristic 
and worth a place anywhere. 

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM 



TO DR. ARCHIBALD LAURIE. 

Mossgidy l^th Nov. 1786 
. DsAR Sir, 

I have along with this sent the two volumes of Ossian, with the remaining volume of the Songs. 
Ossian I am not in such a hurry about ; but I wish the Songs, with the volume of the Scotch Poets, 
returned as soon as they can conveniently be dispatched. If they are left at Mr. Wilson, the 
bookseller's shop, Kilmarnock, they will easily reach me. 

My most respectful compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Laurie ; and a Poet's warmest wishes fof 
their happiness to the young ladies ; particularly the fair musician, whom I think much better 
qualified than ever David was, or could be, to charm an evil spirit out of a Saul. 

Indeed, it needs not the feelings of a poet to be interested in the welfare of one of the sweetest 
scenes of domestic peace and kindred love that ever I saw ; as I think the peaceful unity of St 
Margaret's Hill can only be excelled by the harmonious concord of the Apocalyptic Zion. 

I am, dear Sir, yours sincerely, 

Robert Burn». 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



The Lifb of Robert Burns ...........••, xxM 

Preface to the Kilmarnock Edition of 1786 ^ 

Dedication to the Edinburgh Edition of 1787 • . 



POEMS 



PAOS 

Winter A Dirgo 61 

The Death and dying Words of poor Mailie . 61 

Po5r Mailie's Elegy 62 

First Epistle to Davie, a brother Poet . . 63 

Second 64 

Adiress to the Deil 65 

The auld Farmer's New-year Morning Salutation 

to his auld Mare Maggie ... 67 

To a Haggis 68 

A Prayer under the pressure of violent Anguish 69 

A PrayGr in the prospect of Death . . 69 
Stanzas on the same occasion . . .69 

A Winter Night 70 

Remorse. A Fragment . . . • .71 

The Jolly Beggars. A Cantata ... 71 

Death and Dr. Hornbook. A True Story . . 76 

The Twa Herds ; or, the Holy Tulzie . . 78 

Holy Willie's Prayer ..... 79 

Epitaph on Holy Willie .... 80 
The Inventory; in answer to a mandate by the 

surveyor of taxes 81 

The Holy Fair 82 

The Ordination 84 

The Calf 86 

To James Smith 86 

The Vision 88 

Halloween 92 

Man was made to Mourn. A Dirge . . 95 

To Ruin 96 

To John Goudie of Kilmarnock, on the publica- 
tion cl his Essays 97 

To J. Lapraik, an old Scottish Bard. First 

Epistle 97 

To J. Laf raik. Second Epistle ... 99 



To J. Lapraik. Third Epistle . . 100 

To William Simpson, Ochiltree . . .101 
Address to an illegitimate Child . , lO.S 

Nature's Law. A Poem humbly inscribed to 

G. H., Esq 103 

To the Rev. John M'Math . . , .104 

To a Mouse 105 

Scotch Drink 106 

The Author's earnest Cry and Prayer to the Scotch 

Representatives of the House of Commons 107 
Address to the unco Guid, or the rigidly Right- 
eous 

Tam Samson's Elegy 

Lament, occasioned by the unfortunate issue of 

a Friend's Amour .... 

Despondency. An Ode . , ^ 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 

The first Psalm 

The first six Verses of the ninetieth Psalm 
To a Mountain Daisy .... 

Epistle to a young Friend 

To a Louse, on seeing one on a Lady's Bonnet 
at Church ...... 

Epistle to J. Rankine, enclosing some Poems 
On a Scotch Bard, gone to the West Indies 

The Farewell 

Written on the blank leaf of my Poems, pre- 

sented to an old Sweetheart then married 
A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 
Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux 
Letter to James Tennant of Glenconner 
On the Birth of a posthumous Child « 

To Miss Cruikshank . . . , . 
W'Uie Chalmers ..... 

(11) 



110 
111 

IIJ 

113 

114- 

117 

118 

llj 

119 

120 
121 

122 
123 

12,'^ 
123 
125 
12 
12 fi 
126 
127 



PAGB I 

Verses left in the room where he slept . . 128 
To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., recommending a boy 128 | 
To Mr. M'Adam, of Craigen-gillan . . 129 | 
Answer to a Poetical Epistle sent to the Author j 

bj a Tailor 129 ; 

To J. Hankine. " I am a keeper of the law." 130 
Lines written on a Bank-note . . , 130 j 

A Dream . 130 ' 

A Bard's Epitaph . . .' . . 132 

The Twa Dogs. A Tale .... 132 

Linea en meeting with Lord Daer , . 135 
Addresji to Edinburgh . . • 136 

Spistl 3 to Major Logan .... 137 
The Brigs cf Ayr ..... 138 

On the Dsath of Robert Dundas, Esq., of Arnis- 

ton, late Lord President of the Court of 

Session . , . . . . 141 

On reading in a Newspaper the Dedth of John 

M'Leod, Esq 141 

To Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems . . 142 
The American War. A Fragment . . 142 
The Dean of Faculty. A new Ballad . . 143 
To a Lady, with a Present of a Pair of Drinking- 

gln^ses 144 

To Clarinda 144 

Verses written under the Portrait of the Poet 

Fergusson 144 

Prologue spoken by Mr. Woods, on his Benefit- 
night, Monday, April 16, 1787 . . 145 

Sketch. A Character 145 

To Mr. Scott, of Wauchope ... 145 

Epistle to William Creech . . . .146 
The humble Petition of Bruar- Water, to the 

noble Duke of Athole . . . .147 
On scaring some Water-fowl in Loch Turit 148 

Written with a pencil, over the chimney-piece, 

in the parlour of the Inn at Kenmure, Tay- 

mouth 149 

Written with a pencil, standing by the Fall of 

Fyers, near Loch Ness .... 149 
To Mr. William Tytler, with the present of the 

Bard's picture 150 

Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage, on the 

banks of Nith, June, 1780. First Copy . 150 
The same. December, 1788. Second Copy 151 
To Captain Riddel, of Glenriddel. Extempore 

lines on returning a Newspaper . . 152 
A Mother's Lament for the Death of her Son . 152 
First Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray 152 
On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair . 153 

Epistle to Hugh Parker .... 154 
Linea, intended to be Written under a Noble 

Earl's Picture 155 



Elegy on the year 1788. A Sketch . . 155 
Address to the Toothache .... 155 
Ode. Sacred to the memory of Mrs. Oswald, of 

Auehencruive . . . . . 156 
Fragment inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox 156 



PAG a 

On se:;ing a wounded Hare limp by me, which a 
Fellow had just shot .... 

To Dr. Blacklock. In answer to a Letter . 

Delia. An Ode 

To John M'Murdo, Esq 

Prologue, spoken at the Theatre, Dumfries, 1st 
January, 1790 

Scots Prologue, for Mr. Sutherland's Benefit- 
night, Dumfries 

Sketch. New-year's Day. To Mrs. Dunlop 

To a Gentleman who had sent him a Newspaper, 
and offered to continue it free of expense 

The Kirk's Alarm. A Satire. First Version 

The Kirk's Alarm. A Ballad. Second Version 

Peg Nicholson 

On Captain Matthew Henderson, a gentleman 
who held the patent for his honours imme- 
diately from Almighty God 

The Five Carlins, A Scots Ballad 

The Laddies by the Banks o' Nith 

Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray, on 
the close of the disputed Election between 
Sir James Johnstone, and Captain Miller, 
for the Dumfries district of Boroughs 

On Captain Grose's Peregrination through Scot- 
land, collecting the Antiquities of that king- 
dom 

Written in a wrapper, enclosing a letter to Cap- 
tain Grose 

Tam O'Shanter. A Tale .... 

Address of Beelzebub to the President of the 
Highland Society ..... 

To John Taylor 

Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, on the approach 
of Spring 

The Whistle 176 

Elegy on Miss Burnet of Monboddo . . 178 

Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn . . 178 

Lines sent to Sir John Whitefoord, Bart., of 

Whitefoord, with the foregoing Poem . 179 

Address to the Shade of Thomson, on crowning 

his Bust at Ednam with bays . . 179 

To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray . . 180 

To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray, on receiving 
a favour 183 

A Vision ....... 181 

To John Maxwell, of Terraughty, on his birthday 182 

The Rights of Women, an occasional Address 
spoket by Miss Fontenelle, on her benefit- 
night, Nov. 26, 1792 . 

Monody on a Lady famed for her caprice 

Epistle from Esopus to Maria 

Poem on Pastoral Poetry .... 

Sonnet, written on the 25th January, 1793, the 
birthday of the Author, o»hearing a thrush 
sing in a morning walk 

Sonnet on the death of Robert Riddel, Esq., of 
Glenriddel, April, 1794 . . 186 



157 
158 
159 
15€ 

159 

160 
160 

161 
162 
163 
165 



165 

167 
168 



169 



170 



174 
175 



175 



18' 
lb,. 
184 
185 



18S 



CONTENTS. 



Xll 



PAGB 
186 

186 
186 

187 

187 



tmpromptu on Mrs. Riddel's birthday 

Liberty. A Fragment 

Verses to a young Lady .... 

The Vowela. A Tale .... 

Verses to John Rankine 

On Sensibility. To my dear and much-hon- 
oured friend, Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop . 188 

Lines saiat to a Gentleman whom he had of- 

fecisd 188 

AJiress spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her 

Beneft-night 188 

Oe seeing Miss Fontenelle in a favourite cha- 
racter . . .... 189 



To Chloris 18S 

Poetical Inscription for an Altar to Independ- 
ence 189 

The Heron Ballads. Ballad First . . .190 
The Heron Ballads. Ballad Second . . 190 
The Heron Ballads. Ballad Third . . 192 

Poem addressed to Mr. Mitchell, Collector of 

Excise, Dumfries, 1796 . . . .191 
To Miss Jessy Lewars, Dumfries, with Johnson's 

Musical Museum ..... 1?S 
Poem on Life, addressed to Colonel de Peyster, 

Dumfries, 1796 193 



EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, FRAGMENTS, &c. 



PA6B 

On the Author's Father , . . , 194 

On R. A., Esq 194 

On a Friend 194 

For Gavin Hamilton ..... 194 

On wee Johnny 195 

On John Dove, Innkeeper, Mauchline . . 195 

On a Wag in Mauchline . . . . 195 

On a celebrated ruling Elder .... 195 

On a noisy Polemic ..... 195 

On Miss Jean Scott 195 

On a henpecked Country Squire . ... 195 

On the same 196 

On the same . . . . - , . 196 
The Highland Welcome . . . . .196 

On William Smellie . . . . . 196 

Written on a window of the Inn at Carron . 196 

The Book-worms / . . . . 196 

Lines on Stirling 197 

The Reproof 197 

The Reply . . . . . . .197 

Lines written under the Picture of th€ celebrated 

Miss Burns 197 

Extempore in the Court of Session , . 197 

The henpecked Husband . ' , . . 197 

Written at Inverary 198 

On Elphinston's Translation of Maj-tiarj) Epi- 
grams • . 198 

Inscription on the Head-3tone of Feigusson . 198 

On a Schoolmaster ..... 198 

A Grace before Dinner 198 

A Grace before Meat .... 198 

On Wat .... . . 198 

On Captain Francis Grose . . . 199 

Impromptu to Miss Ainslie . . . 199 

The Kirk of Lamington .... 199 

The League and Covenant . . . 199 



PAOB 

Written on a pane of glass in the Inn at Moffat 199 

Spoken on being appointed to the Excise . 199 

Lines on Mrs. Kemble . . . I9y 

To Mr. Syme ...... 200 

To Mr. Syme, with a present of a dozen of 

porter 200 

A Grace 200 

Inscription on a goblet 200 

The Invitation ; 200 

The Creed of Poverty 200 

Written in a Lady's pocket-book . , 200 

The Parson's Looks 200 

The Toad-eater 201 

On Robert Riddel 201 

The Toast . . . . . . . 201 

On a Person nicknamed the Marquis . . 201 

Lines written on a window . . . 201 
Lines written on a window of the Globe Tavern, 

Dumfries 201 

The Selkirk Grace 2u2 

To Dr. Maxwell, on Jessie Staig's Recovery 202 

Epitaph 203 

Epitaph on William Nicol . . c .202 

On the Death of a Lapdog, named Echo , 202 

On a noted Coxcomb 20.2 

On seeing the beautiful Seat of Lord Galloway 2C2 

On the same 203 

On the same 203 

To the same, on the Author being threatened 

with his resentment .... 203 

On a Country Laird 203 

On John Bushby ...... 203 

The true loyal Natives .... 203 

On a Suicide . . ' . . . .203 

Extempore, pinned on a Lady's coach . 203 

Lines to John Rankine .... 201 



JllV 



COJSTENTS. 



PACK 

Jessy Lewars 204 

The Toast 204 

On Miss Jessy Lewars .... 204 

On the recovery of Jessy Lewars , . . 204 

Tarn the Chapman 204 

« Here's a bottle and an honest friend" . . 205 

" The' fickle fortune has deceived me'* . 205 

T« John Kennedy 205 



lAOl 

To the same 20S 

" There's naethin' like the honest nappy" . 204 
On the blank leaf of a work by Hannah More, 

presented by Mrs. C 206 

To the Men and Brethren of the Masonic Lodge 

at Tarbolton 206 

Impromptu 200 

Prayer for Adam Armour .... 20^ 



SONGS AND BALLADS, 



PAOB 

Handsome Nell 207 

Luckli ss Pc/tuno ... 208 

*'I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing" 208 

Tibbie, I hae seen the day . . . 208 
"My father was a farmer upon the Carrick 

border" . . . . . . 209 

John Barleycorn. A Ballad . . . .210 

The Bigs o' Barley . . . . , 210 

Montgomery's Peggy 211 

The Mauchline Lady . , . . 211 
The Highland Lassie . . . . .211 

Peggy 212 

The rantin' Bog the Daddie o't . . . 213 

" My heart was ance as blithe and free" . 213 

My Nannie 213 

A Fragment. '* One night as I did wander" 214 

Bonnie Peggy Alison 214 

Green grow the Bashes, . . . . 214 

My Jean ....•,. 215 

Robin 215 

*' Her flowing locks, the raven 8 wing" . . 216 

" leave novels, ye Mauchline belles" . 216 

Young Peggy 216 

The Cure for all Care , . , , 217 

Eliza 217 

The Sons of Old Killie .... 217 

And maun I still on Menie doat . . . 218 
The Farewell to the Brethren of St. James's 

Lodge, Tarbolton . . . . 218 

On Cessnock Banks 219 

Mary 220 

The Lass of Ballochmyle .... 220 

" The gloomy night is gathering fast" . . 221 

" whar did ye get that hauver meal bannock ?" 221 

Tbp Joyful Widower 221 

'♦ Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad" . 222 

" I am my mammy's ae bairn" . . . 222 

The Birks of Aberfeldy .... 222 

Macpherson's Farewell .... 22o 

Braw, braw Lads of Galla Water . . 223 

" Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ?" . 224 



Strathallan's Lament .... 

My Hoggie 

Her Daddie forbad, her Minnie forbad 

Up in the Morning early . , 

The young Highland Rover . . 

Hey the dusty Miller .... 

Duncan Davison .... 

Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary , 

The Banks of the Devon . . 

Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray . . 

The Ploughman .... 

Landlady, count the Lawin 

" Raving winds around her blowing" . 

*• How long and dreary is the night" 

Musing on the roaring Ocean 

Blithe, blithe and merry was she 

The blude-red rose at Yule may blaw . 

O'er the Water to Charlie 

A Rosebud by my early walk . . 

Rattlin', roarin' Willie ... 

Where braving angry Winter's Storms 

Tibbie Dunbar .... 

Bonnie Castle Gordon . . • 

My Harry was a gallant gay 

The Tailor fell through the bed, thimbles an' 

Ay Waukin ! 

Beware o' Bonnie Ann . . . 

The Gardener wi' his paidle . . 

Blooming Nelly 

The day returns, my bosom burns 
My Love she's but a lassie yet . • 
Jamie, come try me . . . 

Go fetch to me a Pint o' Wine 
The Lazy Mist . . 

mount and go . . . . 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw . 
Whistle o'er the lave o't . . , 
were I on Parnassus' Hill . . 
'* There's a youth in this city" . • 
My heart's in the Highlands . • 
John Anderson, my Jo . • • 



PAta 

224 

^24 

224 

225 

225 

225 /X " 

226 

226 

226 

227 

227 



228 

228 

229 

229 

229 

230 ^i^ 

230 

230 

231 

231 

231 

232 

232 

232 

233 

233 

233\ 

234 

234 

234 . 

23^ 

235 

235/^"^ 

236 

236 

237 

23?^^ 

239 



CONTENTS. 



XV 



PASB 

Awa, Whigs, awa 238 

Ca' the Ewes to the Knowes . . . 238 

Merry hae I been teethin' a heckle . . 239 

The Braes of Ballochmyle .... 239 

To Mary in Heaven 239 

Eppie Adair 240 

The Battle of Sherriff-muir ... 240 

IToun^ Jockey was the blithest lad . . 241 

Willie brewed a peck o' maut . . 241 
The braes o' Killiecrankie, ... 241 

1 gaed a waefu' gate yestreen . . . 242 

The Banks of Nith 242 

Tarn Glen .242 

Frae the friends and land I love . ; . 243 

Craigie-burn Wood 243 

Cock up your Beaver . . . . . 244 I 

meikle thinks my luve o* my beauty . 244 
Gudewife, count the Lawin .... 244 j 
'P^ en" ne ^ be ^ /ac *U1 .>-aie ".'"me" ^ano" 24^ ' 
The bonnie lad that's far awa . . . 245 

1 do confess thou art sae fair . . , 246 | 
Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide 246 ! 
It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face . . . 246 
MV\en I think on the happy days . . . 247 
Whxn I sleep I dream .... 247 
"I murder hate by field or flood" . . 247 
gudii ale comes and gude ale goes . . 247 

Robin shure in hairst 248 

B«nni« Peg 248 

Qudeei; to you, Kimmer .... 248 

Ah, Chloris, since it may na be . . 249 

Eppie M'Nab 249 

Wha is that at my bower-door . . . 249 

What can a young lassie do wi' an au)d man . 250 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing , . 250 

The tither morn when I forlorn . . . 260 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever . . . 251 

Lovely Davies .*.... 251 

The weary Pund o' Tow .... 252 

Naebody 252 

An for ane and twenty, Tam , . . 252 

Kenmure's on and awa, Willie . . . 253 

The Collier Laddie 253 

Nithsdale's Welcome Hame . . . 254 

Ai! I was a-wand'ring ae Midsummer e'enin . 254 

Bsisy and her Spinning-wheel . . . 254 

Iha Posie 255 

The Country Lass . . . , , 255 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza .... 256 

Fe Jacobites by name .... 256 

Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon . , . 257 

Yo banks and braes o' bonnie Doon . . 257 

Willie Wastle 257 

Lady Mary Ann 258 

Buch a parcel of rogues in a nation . . 258 

The Carle of Kellybum braes . . . 259 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss . . . 260 

tady Onlie 260 



The Chevalier's Lament 

Song of Death .... 

Flow gently, sweet Afton 

Bonnie Bell .... 

Hey ca' thro*, ca' thro' 

The Gallant weaver 

The deuks dang o'er my Daddie 

She's fair and fause .... 

The Deil cam' fiddling thro' thetown 

The lovely Lass of Inverness 

my luve's like a red, red rose 
Louis, what reck I by thee 
Had I the wyte she bade me . 
Coming through the rye 

Young Jamie, pride of a' the plaij 
Out over the Forth I look to the north 
The Lass of Ecclefechan 
The Cooper o' Cuddie 
F"*^ th( '''-ke "^^ sor-'<»'iod'" 

1 coft a stane o' haslock woo 

The lass that made the bed for me 

Sae far awa 

I'll ay ca' in by yon town 

wat ye wha's in yon town 

May, thy morn . . , 

Lovely Polly Stewart 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire 

Cassilis' Banks 

To thee, lov'd Nith 

Bannocks o* Barley 

Hee Balou ! my sweet wee Donald 

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my 

Here's his health in water 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form 

Gloomy December 

My lady's gown, there's gairs upon 't 

Amang the trees, where humming bees 

The gowden locks of Anna 

My ain kind dearie, 

W^ill ye go to the Indies, my Mary 

She is a winsome wee thing 

Bonny Leslie 

Highland Mary 

Auld Rob Morris 

Duncan Gray .... 

poortith cauld, and restless love 

Galla Water .... 

Lord Gregory 

Mary Morison .... 

Wandering Willie. First Version 

Wandering Willie. Last Version 

Oh, open the door to me, oh! 



The poor and honest sodger 
Meg o' the Mill 
Blithe hae I been on yon hill 
Logan Water 





tvi CONTENTS. 






PAGE 


I 


PAOl 




" were my love yon lilac fair" , . 


281 


Farewell, thou stream, that winding flows 


296 




Bonnie Jean 


282 


Philly, happy be the day ... 


297 




Phillis the fair 


283 


Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair 


297 




Had I a cave on some wild distant shore . 


283 


Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy . 


298 




By Allan stream 


283 


1 My Nannie's awa 


298 




Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad 


284 


j wha is she that lo'es me . 


299 




Adown ■Tvinding Nith I did wander . . 


284 


j Caledonia 


299 




Come, let me take thee to my breast 


285 


lay thy loof in mine, lass .... 


300 


\ 


Daintie Davie . . . . 


285 


! The Fete Champetre ..... 


300 


ss^ Scuts wha hao wi' Wallace bled. First Version 285 


Here's a health to them that's awa . 


301 




Soots wha hae wi' Wallace bled. Second Version 286 


, For a' that, and a' that, 


301 




Behold the hour, the boat arrives 


287 


Craigieburn Wood 


302 


s. 


Thou hast left me ever, Jamie . . . 


287 


■ lassie, art thou sleeping yet . , . 


302 


<^ 


Auld lang syne 


287 


tell na me o' wind and rain . . , 


303 




" Where are the joys I have met in the morning* 


288 


The Dumfries Volunteers 


303 




" Deluded swain, the pleasure" , . . 


288 


! Address to the Wood-lark 


304 




Nancy 


288 


On Chloris being ill 


304 




Husband, husband, cease your strife 


289 


Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands | 




Wilt thou be my dearie ? . . , , 


289 


1 reckon 


304 




But lately seen in gladsome green . . . 


290 


1 'Twas na her bonnie blue een was my ruin 


305 




" Could aught of song declare my pains" . 


290 


How cruel are the parents . . , 


305 


\ 


Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass . . 


290 


Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion . , 


305 




A It was a' for our rightfu' king . , 


291 


this is no my ain lassie . . . 


306 




steer her up and baud her gaua r, , 


291 


Now Spring has clad the grove in green . 


306 


■X,. 


ay my wife she dang me . , , 


291 


bonnie was yon rosy brier . . , 


307 




wert thou in the cauld blast . . , 


292 


Forlorn my love, no comfort near 


307 




The Banks of Cree 


292 


Last May a braw wooer cam down tiic lang glen 


307 




On the seas and far away^ .... 


292 


Chloris . . . • . V . 


808 




Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes 


293 


The Highland Widow's Lament 


308 




Sae flaxen were her ringlets .... 


293 


To General Dumourier .... 


309 




saw ye my dear, my Phely ? . . . 


294 


' Peg-a-Ramsey 


309 




How iang and dreary is the night 


294 


There was a bonnie lass 


309 




Let not woman e'er complain 


294 


Mally's neek, Mall/s sweet 


309 




The Lover's Morning Salute to his Mistress . 


295 


Hey for a lass wi' a tocher 


310 




My Chloris, mark how green the groves ■ . 


295 


Jessy. " Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear" 


310 




Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe . 


296 


Fairest Maid on Devon banks 


311 




Lassie wi' the lint-white locks . 


296 








GENERAL C ORRESPOlfDENCE. 






1781. 




1784. 






JJsTo. I. To William Burness. His health a 




IX. To Mr. James Burness. On the death of Mb 






little better, but tired of Ufe. The Revela- 




father . ... 


BU 




tions 


311 


X. To Mr. James Burness. Account cf the 






1783. 




Buchanites . . . . , , 


321 






XL To Miss — . With a book . . 


323 




II- To Mr. John Murdoch. His present studies 










and temper of mind .... 


312 


1786. 






III. To Mr. James Burness, His father's ill- 




XII. To Mr. John Richmond. His progress 






ness, and sad state of the country 


813 


in poetic composition .... 


823 




rV. To Miss E. Love . . . 


314 


XIII. To Mr. John Kennedy. The Cotter's 






V. To Miss E. Love ..... 


314 


Saturday Night ..... 


324 




VI. To Miss B. Love 


315 


XIV. To Mr. Robert Muir. Enclosing his 






ril. To Miss E. On her refusal of his hand 


316 


" Scotch Drink" . . ... 


324 




nil. To Robert Riddel, Esq. Observations 




XV. To Mr. Aiken. Enclosing a stanza on the 






«n poetry and human life .... 


316 


blank leaf of a book by "Hannah Mora 


324 



1.0NTENTS. 



XVlJ 



PAQE 

XVI. To Mr. M'Whmnie, Subscriptions . 324 
KVII. To Mr. John Kennedj. Enclosing " The 

Gowan" 326 

X.VIII. To Mon. James Smith. His voyage 

to the West Indies 325 

SIX. To Mr. John Kennedy. His poems in 

the press. Subscriptions .... 325 
X.X. To Mr. David Brice. Jean Armour's 

return, — printing his poems . . . 326 
KXL To Mr. Robert Aiktn. Distress of mind 326 
5XII. To Mr.- John Richmond. Jean Armour 327 
^IXIIL To John Ballantyne, Esq. Aiken's cold- 
ness. His marriage-lines destroyed . . 328 
KXIV. To Mr. David Brice. Jean Armour. 
West Indies 328 

XXV. To Mr. John Ricnmond. West Indies 
The Armours 328 

XXVI. To Mr. Robert Muir. Enclo^ng "The 
Calf" 329 

XXVII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Thanks for her notice. 

Sir William Wallace 32ft 

J? XVIII. To Mr. John Kennedy. Jamaica . 330 

XXIX. To Mr. James Burness. His departure 
uncertain 330 

XXX. To Miss Alexander. "The Lass of Bal- 
lochmyle" 330 

XXXI. To Mrs. Stewart, of Stair and Afton. 
"Enclosing some songs. Miss Alexander . 331 

XXXII. Proclamation in the name of the Muses 332 

XXXIII. To Mr. Robert Muir. Enclosing " Tarn 
Samson." His Edinburgh expedition . 332 

SXXIV. To Dr. Mackenzie. Enclosing the 
verses on dining with Lord Daer . . 332 

XXXV. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Rising fame. 
Patronage . 333 

XXXVI. To John Ballantyne, Esq. His patrons 
and patronesses. The Lounger . . 333 

vXXVII. To Mr. Robert Muir. A note of 
thanks. Talks of sketching the history of 
his life 334 

XXXVIII. To Mr. William Chalmers. A hu- 
morous sally 334 

1787. 

SXXIX. To the Earl of Eglinton. Thanks for 

his patronage 335 

XL. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Love . 335 

XLI. To John Ballantyne, Esq. Mr. Miller's 

offer of a farm 335 

XLII. To John Ballantyne, Esq. Enclosing 

"The Banks 0' Doon." First Copy . . 336 
XLIII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Dr. Moore and Lord 

Eglinton. His situation in Edinburgh . 336 
XLIV. To Dr. Moore. Acknowledgments for 

his notice 337 

XLV. Tothe Rev. G. Lowrie. Reflections on his 

situation in life. Dr. Blacklock, Mackenzie 338 
2 



PAe» 

XLVI. To Dr. Moore. Miss Williams . 338 

XLVII. To John Ballantyne, Esq. His portrait 

engraving 339 

XLVIII To the Earl of Glencairn. Enclosing 

"Lines intended tc be written under a noble 

Earl's picture" 338 

XLIX. To the Earl of Buchan. In reply to a 

letter of advice 331 

L. To Mr. James Candlish. Still "the old 

man with his deeds" . ... 341 

LI. To . On FergussoT s headstone . 34 J 

LII. To Mrs. Dunlop. His prospects on leav- 
ing Edinburgh 341 

LIII. To Mrs. Dunlop. A letter of acknow- 
ledgment for the payment of the subscription 342 
LIV. To Mr. Sibbald. Thanks for his notice 

in the magazine . . . . . 343 

LV. To Dr. Moore. Acknowledging the present 

of his View of Society .... 343 

LVI. To Mr. Dunlop. Reply to criticisms . 343 
LVII. To the Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair. On leav- 

ing Edinburgh. Thanks for his kindness . 344 
LVIII. To the Earl of Glencairn. On leaving 

Edinburgh 344 

LIX. To Mr. William Dunbar. Thanking him 

for the present of Spenser's poems . 344 

LX. To Mr. James Johnson. Sending a song 

to the Scots Musical Museum . . . 345 
LXI. To Mr. William Creech. His tour on the 

Border. Epistle in verse to Creech . . 345 
LXII. To Mr. Patison. Business . . . 3^ ^ 
LXIII. To Mr. W. Nicol. A ride described 

in broad Scotch 346 

LXIV. To Mr. James Smith. Unsettled in life. 

Jamaica 846 

LXV. To Mr. W. Nicol. Mr Miller, Mr. 

Burnside. Bought a pocket Milton . 347 

LXVI. To Mr. James Candlish. Seeking a 

copy of Lowe's poem of " Pompey's Ghost" . 347 
LXVIL To Robert Ainslie, Esq. His tour 34S 

LXVIIL To Mr. W. Nicol. Auchtertyre . 348 
LXIX. To Mr. Wm. Cruikshank. Auchtertyre 348 
LXX. To Mr. James Smith. An adventure . 349 
LXXI. To Mr. John Richmond. His rambles 350 
LXXII. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. Sets high 

value on his friendship . . . 350 
LXXIII. To the same. Nithsdale and Edin- 
burgh 3f« 

LXXIV. To Dr. Moore. Account of his own life 351 
LXXV. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. A humorous 

letter 357 

LXXVI. To Mr. Robert Muir. Stirling, Ban- 

nockburn 357 

LXXVIL To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Of Mr. 

Hamilton's own family .... 869 
LXXVIII. To Mr. Walker. Bruar Water The 

Athole family ..... 36« 



CTlll 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

LXXTX. To Mr. Gilbert Burns. Account of his 

Highland tour 359 

LXXX. To Miss Margaret Chalmers. Charlotte 

Hamilton. Skinner. Nithsdale . . 360 

LXXXI. To the same. Charlotte Hamilton, and 

" The Banks of the Devon" . . 360 

LXXXII. To James Hoy, Esq. Mr. Mcol. 

JohKson'u Musical Museum . . . 361 

LX XXIII. To Rev. John Skinner. Thanking 

him for his poetic compliment . . . 361 
LXXX IV. To James Hoy, Esq Song by the 

Duke of Gordon 362 

LXXXV. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. His friend- 

BLlp for him 363 

LXXXVI. To theEarlof Glencairn. Requesting 

his aid in obtaining an excise appointment . 363 
LXXXVII. To James Dalrymple, Esq. Rhyme. 

Lord Glencairn 363 

L XXXVIII. To Charles Hay, Esq. Enclosing 

his poem on the death of the Lord President 

Dundas ....... 364 

LXXXIX. To Miss M— n. Compliments . 364 
XC. To Miss Chalmers. Charlotte Hamilton . 365 
XCI. Tc the same. His braised limb. The 

Bible. The Ochel Hills . . .365 

XCII. To the same. His motto — "I dare." 

His own worst enemy 365 

XCIII. To Sir John Whitefoord. Thanks for 

his friend.'hip. Of poets . . .366 

XOIV. To -M.'ss Williams. Comments on her 

poem of th*. Slave Ti*ade . , . 366 

XCV. To Mr. Richard Brown. Recollections 

of early life. Clarinda . . .368 

XCVI. To Ga\in Hamilton, Esq. Prayer for 

his health 369 

XCVII. To Miss Chalmers. Complimentary 

poems. Creech 369 

1788. 

XCVIII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Lowness of spirits. 

Leaving Edinburgh 370 

XCIX. To the same. Religion . . .370 
C. To the Rev. John Skinner. TuUochgorum. 

Skinner's Latin 370 

01. To Mr Richard Brcwn. Hi? arrival in 

Gla?gow ....... 371 

vll. To Mra. R«*ge, of Kilravock. Recollections 

0* Kilravock 371 

CT n. To Mr. Richard Brown. Friendship. The 

pleasures of the present . , . . 372 
CTV. To Mr. William Cruikshank. EUisland. 

Plans in life . . . ... .372 

CV. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. E\lisland. Edin- 
burgh. Clarinda .... 373 

CVI. To Mr. Richard Brown. Idleness. Farming 374 
:VII. To Mr. Robert Muir. His offer for Ellis- 

'and. The "lose of life . . . . 374 



CVIII. To Miss Chalmers. Taken EUisland. 

Mis& Kennedy 375 

CIX. To Mrs. Dunlop. Coila's robe . . 37* 
ex. To Mr. Richard Brown. Apologies. On 

his way to Dumfries from Glasgow . . :76 
CXI. To Mr. Robert Cleghorn. Poet and famo. 

The air of Captain O'Kean .... $7^1 
CXII. To Mr. William Dunbar. Foregoing 

poetry and wit for farming and business . B?f 
CXIII. To Miss Chalmers. Miss Kennedy 

Jean Armour S7V 

CXIV. To the same. Creech's rumoured bank. 

ruptcy 37'' 

CXV. To the same. His entering the Excise .S7» 
CXVI. To Mrs. Dunlop. Farming and the Excise. 

Thanks for the loan of Dryden and Tasso . 378 
CXVII, To Mr. James Smith. Jocularity. Jean 

Armour 378 

CXVIII. To Professor Dugald Stewart. Enclo- 
sing some poetic trifles .... 379 
CXIX. To Mrs. Dunlop. Dryden's Virgil. His 

preference of Dryden to Pope . . . 379 
CXX. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. His marriage . 379 
CXXI. To Mrs. Dunlop. On the treatment of 

servants 380 

CXXII. To the same. The merits of Mrs. Burns 380 
CXXIII. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. The warfare 

of life. Books. Religion .... 381 
CXXIV. To the same. Miers' profiles . . 382 
CXXV. To the same. Of the folly of talking 

of one's private affairs .... 382 

CXXVI. To Mr. George Lockhart. The Miss 

Baillies. Bruar Water . . . .383 
CXXVII. To Mr. Peter Hill. With the present 

of a cheese 383 

CXXVIII. To Robert Graham Esq., of Fintray. 

The Excise 384 

CXXIX. To Mr. William Cruikshank. Creech. 

Lines written In Friar's Carse Hermitage . 385 
CXXX. To Mrs. Dunlop. Lines written at Friar's 

Carse. Graham of Fintray . . . 385 
CXXXI. To the same. Mrs. Burns. Of accom- 
plished young ladies 388 

CXXXII. To the same. Mrs. Miller, of Dals- 

winton. "The Life and Age of Man." . 38*? 
CXXXin. To Mr. Beugo. Ross and "The 

Fortunate Shepherdess." .... 3S8 
CXXXIV. To Miss Chalmers. Recollections, 

Mrs. Burns. Poetry S88 

CXXXV. To Mr. Morison. Urging expedition 

with*his clock and other furniture for EUisland 39!> 
CXXXVI. To Mrs. Dunlop. Mr. Graham. Her 

criticisms 39<l 

CXXXVII. To Mr. Peter Hill. Criticism on an 

"Address to Loch Lomond." . . . 391 
CXXXVIII. To the Editor of the Star. Plead- 
ing for the line of the Stuarts . . . 393 



CONTJiJNTS. 



xu 



PAGE 

CXXXlA, xo Mrs. Dunlop. The present of a 

heifer fron? %e Dunlops . . . .393 
CXL. To M.T. James Johnson. Scots Musical 

Museum 393 

CXLL To Dr. Blackloek. Poetical progress. 

His marriag^e 394 

CXLII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Enclosing "Auld 

Lnng ?yn«*" 394 

CXLIII. '10 Miss Davies. Enclosing the song 

of "Cham in g, lovely Davies" . . . 395 
CXLIV. To Mr. John Tennant. Praise cf hie 

whiskey 395 

1789. 

t A LV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Keflections suggested 
by the day 396 

CXLVI. To Dr. Moore. His situation and 
prospects 396 

CXL VII. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. His favour- 
ite quotations. Musical Museum. . . 398 

CXLVIII. To Professor Dugald Stewart. Enclo- 
sing some poems for his comments upon . 398 

CXLIX. To Bishop Geddes. His situation and 
prospects 399 

CL. To Mr. James Burness. His wife and farm. 
Profit from his poems. Fanny Burns . . 399 

CLI. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections. His success 
in song encouraged a shoal of bardlings . 400 

CLII. To the Rev. Peter Carfrae. Mr. Mylne's 
poem 401 

CLIII. To Dr. Moore. Introduction. His ode 
to Mrs. Oswald 401 

CLrV. To Mr. William Burns. Remembrance 402 

CLV. To Mr. Peter Hill. Economy and fru- 
galitj;. Purchase of books .... 402 

CLVI. To Mrs. Dunlop. Sketch inscribed to 
the Right Hon. C. J. Fox . . . .403 

CLVII. To Mr. William Burns. Asking him to 
make his house his home .... 404 

CLVIII. To Mrs. M'Murdo. With the song of 
" Bonnie Jean" 404 

CLIX. To Mr. Cunningham. With the poem 
of " The Wounded Hare" . . . .404 

CLX. To Mr. Samuel Brown, His farm. Ailsa 
fowling 405 

CI.XI. To Mr. Richard Brown. Kind wishes 405 

CLXII. To Mr. James Hamilton. Sympathy 406 

CLX III. To William Creech, Esq. Toothache. 
Good wishes 406 

CLXIV. To Mr. M'Auley. His own welfare . 406 

CLXV. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. Overwhelmed 
with incessant toil 407 

CLXVI. To Mr. M'Murdo. Enclosing his new- 
est song 407 

CLXVII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections on re- 
ligion . . : 408 

ILXVIII. Tc Mr. . Fergusson the poet. 408 



CLXIX. To Miss Williams. Enclosing criti- 
cisms on her poems 408 

CLXX. To Mr. /ohn Logan. With "The Kirk's 

Alarm" 410 

CLXXI. To Mrs. Dunlop. Religion. Dr. Moore's 

"Zeluco" 411 

CLXXIL To Captain Riddel. " The Whistle" 411 
CLXXIII. To the same. With some of his MS. 

poems ' . . ,412 

CLXXIV. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. His Excise 

employment 413 

CLXXV. To Mr. Richard Browii His Excise 

duties 413 

CLXXVI. To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray. 

The Excise. Captain Grose. Dr. M'Gill . -413 
CLXXVII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections on 

immortality 414 

CLXXVIII. To Lady M. W. Constable. Jaco- 

bitism 415 

CLXXIX. To Provost Maxwell. At a loss for 

a subject 415 

1790. 

CLXXX. To Sir John Sinclair. Account of a 

book-society in Nithsdale .... 418 
CLXXXI. To Charles Sharpe, Esq. A letter 

with a fictitious signature . . .416 

CLXXXIL To Mr. Gilbert Burns. His farm a 

ruinous aff"air. Players . . . .417 
CLXXXIII. To Mr. Sutherland. Enclosing a 

Prologue 418 

CLXXXIV. To Mr. William Dunbar. Excise. 

His children. Another world . . .418 
CLXXXV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Falconer the poet. 

Old Scottish songs 419 

CLXXXVL To Mr. Peter Hill. M^ademoiselle 

Burns. Hurdis. Smollett and Cowper . 420 
CLXXXVII. To Mr. W. Nicol. The death of 

Nicol's mare Peg Nicholson . . . 420 

CLXXXVIIL To Mr. W. Cunmngham. What 

strange beings we are 421 

CLXXXIX. To Mr. Peter Hill. Orders for 

books. Mankind 423 

CXC. Tz Mrs. Dunlop. Mackenzie and the 

Mirror and Lounger 423 

CXCI. To Collector Mitchell. A county meeting 424 
CXCII. To Dr. Moore. "Zeluco." Charlotte Smilh 125 
CXCIII. To Mr. Murdoch. William Burns . 425 
CXCIV. To Mr. M'Murdo. With the Elegy on 

Matthew Henderson 426 

CXCV. To Mrs. Dunlop. His pride woundea' 420 
CXCVL To Mr. Cunningham. Independence 426 
CXCVII. To Dr. Anderson. " The Bee." . 42^ 
CXC VIII. To William Tytler, Esq. With some 

West-country ballads 427 

CXCIX. To Crauford Tait, Esq. Introducing 

Mr. William Duncan 427 



CONTENTS. 



CC, To Crauford Tait, Esq. "The Kirk's Alarm" 428 
flCI. To Mrs. Bunlop. On the birth of her 
grandchiii. Tarn O'Shanter . . 429 

1791. 

ecu. To Lady M. W. Constable. Thanks for 

the present of a gold snuflF-box . . . 429 
CCITI. To Mr. William Dunbar. Not gone to 

Elysium. Sending a poem .... 429 
OCIY. To Mr. Peter Hill. Apostrophe to Poverty 430 
CCV. To Mr. Cunningham. Tarn O'Shanter. 

p]legy on Miss Burnet 430 

OCVI. To A. F. Tytler, Esq. Tarn O'Shanter 431 
CCVII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Miss Burnet. Elegy 

writing 431 

CCVIII. To Kev. Arch. Alison. Thanking him 

for his " Essay on Taste" , . . .432 
CCIX. To Dr. Moore. Tam O'Shanter. . Elegy 

on Henderson. Zeluco. Lord Glencairn . 432 
CCX. To Mr. Cunningham. Songs . . 433 
CCXl To Mr. Alex. Dalzel. The death of the 

Earl of Glencairn 434 

CCXIl To Mrs. Graham, of Fintray. With 

" Queen Mary's Lament" .... 434 
OCXIII. To the same. With his printed Poems 435 
CCXIV. To the Rev. G. Baird. Michael Bruce 435 
CCXV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Birth of a son . 435 
CCXVL To the same. Apology for delay . 436 
CCXVII. To the same. Quaint invective on a 

pedantic critic 436 

CCXVIII. To Mr. Cunningham. The case of 

Mr. Clarke of Moffat, Schoolmaster . . 437 
CCXIX. To ihe Earl of Buchan. With the 

Address to the shade of Thomson . 437 

OCXX. To Mr. Thomas Sloan. Apologies. His 

crop sold well 438 

CCXXL To Lady E. Cunningham. With the 

Lament for the Earl of Glencairn . . 438 
CCXXIL To Mr. Robert Ainslie. State of mind. 

His income 439 

CCXXIII. ToCol.Fullarton. With some Poems. 

His anxiety for Fullarton's friendship . . 439 
CCXXIV, To Miss Davis. Lethargy, Indolence, 

and Ramorse. Our wishes and our powers . 440 
CCXXV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Mrs. Henri. The 

Song of Death 440 

1792. 

3CXXVI. To Mrs. Dunlop. The animadver- 
sicns of the Board of Excise . . . 441 

CCXXVIL To Mr. William Smellie. Introdu- 
cing Mrs. Riddel 441 

CCXXVIII. To Mr. W. Nicol. Ironical reply 
to a letter of counsel and reproof . . 442 

CCXXIX. To Francis Grose, Esq. Dugald 
Stewart 443 

CCXXX. To the same. Witch stories . . 443 



rAsi 

CCXXXI. To Mr. S. Clarke. Humorous invi- 
tation to teach music to the M'Murdo family 444 

CCXXXIL To Mrs. Dunlop. Love and Lesley 
Baiilie 44J 

CCXXXIIL To Mr. Cunningham. Lesley Baiilie 44« 

CCXXXIV. To Mr. Thomson. Promising his 
assistance to his collection of songs and airs 447 

CCXXXV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Situation of Mrs. 
Henri ....*.... 443 

CCXXXVL To the same. On the death of 
Mrs. Henri 449 

CCXXXVII. To Mr. Thomson. Thomson's fas- 
tidiousness. " My Nannie 0," &c. . . 449 

CCXXXVIII. To the same. With "My wife 's 
a winsome wee thing," and "Lesley Baiilie" 45f 

CCXXXIX. To the same. With Highland Mary. 
The air of Katherine Ogie .... 4&II 

CCXL. To the same. Thomson's alterations 
and observations 451 

CCXLL To the same. Wu' "Auld Rob Mor- 
ris," and " Duncan Gray" .... 451 

CCXLII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Birth of a daughter. 
The poet Thomson's dramas . . . 451 

CCXLIII. To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray. 
The Excise inquiry into his political conduct 452 

CCXLrV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Hurry of business. 
Excise inquiry 453 

1793. 

CCXLV. To Mr. Thomson. With " Poortith 
cauld" and "Galla Water" . . . .453 

CCXLVI. To the same. William Tytler, Peter 
Pindar .463 

CCXLVII. To Mr. Cunningham The port's 
seal. David Allan ^5*^ 

CCXLVIIL To Thomson. With "Mary Mo- 
rison" ........ 455 

CCXLIX. To the same. With "Wandering 
Willie" ^.455 

CCL. To Miss Benson. Pleasure he had in 
meeting her 455 

CCLI. To Patrick Miller, Esq. With the pre- 
sent of his printed poems .... 45/ 

CCLII. To Mr. Thomson. Review of Scottish 
song. Crawfurd and Ramsay . • . 4>* 

CCLIII. To the same. Criticism. Allan Ram- 
say 45* 

CCLIV. To the same. "The last time I came 
o'er the moor" 4o- 

CCLV. To John Francis Erskine, Esq. Self- 
justification. The Excise inquiry . . 451? 

CCLVI. To Mi-. Robert Ainslie. Answering 
letters. Scholar-craft . . . . . 46e 

CCLVII. To Miss Kennedy. A letter of com- 
pliment 461 

CCLVIIL To Mr. Thomson. Frazer. "Blithe 
hae I been on yon hill" .... 461 



CONTENTS. 



xn 



PAGE 

CCLIX. To Mr. Thomson. "Logan Water." "0 
gin my love were yon red rose" . . . 462 

CCLX. To the same. Wit>h the song of " Bon- 
nie Jean" 463 

CCLXI. To the same. Hurt at the idea of pecu- 
niary recompense. Eemarks on song . . 463 

CCLXII. To the same. Note written in the 
j.ame of Stephen Clarke .... 464 

JCLXIII. To the same. With " Phillis the fair" 464 

20LXIV. To the same. With "Had I a cave 
on some wild distant shore" . . . 464 

CCLXV. To the same. With "Allan Water" 464 

CCLXVL To the same. With " whistle, and 
I'll come to you, my lad," &g. . . . 465 

CCLXVII. To the same. With "Come, let me 
take thee to my breast" .... 465 

CCLXVIII. To the same With " Dainty Davie" 466 

CCLXIX. To Miss Craik. Wretchedness of 
poets 466 

CCLXX. To Lady Glencairn. Gratitude. Ex- 
cise. Dramatic composition . . . 466 

CCLXXL To Mr. Thomson. With " Scots wha 
hae wi* Wallace bled" 467 

CCLXXIL To the same. With " Behold the 
hour, the boat arrive" 468 

CCLXXIII. To the same. Crawfurd and Scot- 
tish song 468 

OCLXXIV. To the same. Alterations in "Scots 
wha hae wi' Wallace bled" . . ... 470 

CCLXXV. To the same. Further suggested 
alterations in " Scots wha hae" rejected . 470 

CCLXXVL To the same. With "Deluded 
swain, the pleasure," and " Raving winds 
around her blowing" 471 

CCLXXVIL To the same. Erskine and Gavin 
Turnbull . 471 

CCLXXVIIL To John M'Murdo, Esq. Pay- 
ment of a debt. " The Merry Muses" . 472 

CCLXXIX. To the same. With his printed 
poems 473 

CCLXXX. To Captain . Anxiety for his ac- 

quai'-^^ance. " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled" 473 

CCLXXXI. To Mrs, Riddel. The Dumfries 
Theatre 474 

1794. 

CCLXXXTI. To a Lady. In favour of a play- 
er's benefit . 474 

\:LXXXin. To the Earl of Buchan. With a 
copy of " Scots wha hae" .... 474 

CCLXXXIV. To Captain Miller. With a copy 
of " Scots wha hae" 475 

ICLXXXV. To Mrs. Riddel. Lobster-coated 
puppies 475 

CCLXXXVL To the same. The gin-horse class 
of the human genus ... . 175 

RCLXXXVII. To the same. With "Werter." 
Her reception of him 475 



CCLXXXVIIL To Mrs. Riddel. Her caprice 476 
CCLXXXIX. To the same. Her neglect and 

unkindness 476 

CCXC. To John Syme, Esq. Mrs. Oswald, and 

" wat ye wha's in yon town" . . , 476 
CCXCI. To Miss . Obscure allusions to a 

friend's death. His personal and poetic fama ill 
CCXCII. To Mr. Cunningham. Hypochondria. 

Requests consolation tff 

CCXCIII. To the Earl of Glencairn. W.th hia 

printed poems 47( 

CCXCIV. To Mr. Thomson. David Allan. "The 

banks of Cree" 47iJ 

CCXCV. To David M'Culloch, Esq. Arrange- 
ments for a trip in Galloway . . . 47& 
CCXCVI. To Mrs. Dunlop. Threatened with 

flying gout. Ode on Washington's birthday 479 
CCXCVII. To Mr. James Johnson. Low spirits. 

The Museum. Balmerino's dirk . . 480 

CGXGVm. To Mr. Thomson. Lines written 

in "Thomson's Collection of songs" . . 48# 
CCXCIX. To the same. With " How can my 

poor heart be glad" 480 

CCC. To the same. With " Ca' the yowes to the 

knowes" ....... 481 

CCCI. To the same. With " Sae flaxen were 

her ringlets." Epigram to Dr. Maxwell . 481 
CCCII. To the same. The charms of Miss Lo- 

rimer. " saw ye my dear, my Phely," &c. 482 
CCCIII. To the same. Ritson's Scottish Songs. 

. Love and song 483 

CCCIV. To the same. English nongs. The air 

of "Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon" . 484 
CCGV. To the same. With " Philly, happy 

be the day," and " Contented wi' little" . iSi 
CCCVL To the same. With " Canst thou V«vi 

me thus, my Katy" ... . i^6 

CCCVII. To Peter Miller, jun., Esq. .^r.^ise, 

Perry's offer to write for the Morning Chronic lo 487 
CCCVIII. To Mr. Samuel Clarke, jun. A poli- 
tical and personal quarrel. Regret . . '487 
CCCIX. To Mr. Thomson. With " Now in her 

green mantle blithe nature arrays . . 48' 

1795. 

CCCX. To Mr. Thomson. Wi'Jk *" For a' that 
and a' that" . 488 

CCCXI. To the same. Abuse of Ecclefechau 438 

CCCXII. To the same. With " stay, swast 
warbling woodlark, stay," and " The grovee c f ^ 
sweet myrtle" ...... 4S8 

CCCXIII. To the same. With " How cruel are 
the parents" and " Mark yonder pomp of costly 
fashion" 489 

CCCXIV. To the same. Praise of David Allan's 
" Cotter's Saturday Night" . . ' . . 48» 

CCCXV. To the same. With " This is no my ain 
Lassie." Mrs. Riddel 489 



Kxa 



CONTENTS. 



PASB 

CCCXVI. To Mr. Thomson. With "Forlorn, 
my lore, no comfort near" .... 490 

CCCXVII. To the same. With « Last May a 
braw wooer/' and " Why tell thy lover" . 490 

CCCXVni. To Mrs. Riddel. A letter from the 
grav(v 490 

CCCXIX. To the same. A letter of compliment. 
"Anacharsis' Travels" .... 491 

CCCXX. To Miss Louisa Fontenelle. With a 
Prologue for her benefit-night . . . 491 

CCCXXL To Mrs. Dunlop. His family. Miss 
Fontenelle. Cowper's " Task" . . . 492 

CCCXXII. To Mr. Alexander Findlater. Ex- 
cise schemes 492 

CCCXXIII. To the Editor of the Morning Chro- 
nicle. Written for a friend. A complaint . 493 

CCCXXIV. To Mr. Heron, of Heron. With two 
political ballads 493 

CCCXXV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Thomson's Collec- 
tion. Acting as Supervisor of Excise . 494 

CCCXXVI. To the Right Hon. William Pitt. 
Address of the Scottish Distillers . . 495 

CCCXXVII. To the Provost, Bailies, and Town 
Council of Dumfries. Request to be made a 
freeman of the town ..... 496 

1796. 

CCCXXVIII. To Mrs. Riddel. " Anarcharsis' 
Travels." The muses 495 

CCCXXIX. To Mrs. Dunlop. His ill-health . 496 

CCCXXX. To Mr. Thomson. Acknowledging 
bis present to Mrs. Burns of a worsted 
shawl 497 

CJCCXXXL To the same. Hi-health. Mrs, 
Ujslop Allan's etchings. Cleghons . 497 



CCCXXXII. To the samo. " Here 's a health 
to ane I loe dear" 498 

CCCXXXIIL To the same. His anxiety t|> 
review his songs, asking for copies . . 499 

CCCXXXIV. To Mrs. Riddel. His increasing 
ill-health 498 

CCCXXXV. To Mr. Clarke, acknowledging mo- 
ney and requesting the loan of a further sum 498 

CCCXXXVL To Mr. James Johnson. The 
Scots Musical Museum. Reques'* for a copy 
of the collection 499 

CCCXXXVII. To Mr. Cunningham. Dlness 
and poverty, anticipation of death . . 499 

CCCXXXVIII. To Mr. Gilbert Burns. His ill- 
health' and debts 500 

CCCXXXIX. To Mr. James Armour. Entreating 
Mrs, Armour to come to her daughter's con- 
finement 500 

CCCXL. To Mrs. Burns. Sea-bathing afiforda 
little relief 500 

CCCXLL To Mrs. Dunlop. Her friendship. A 
farewell 501 

CCCXLIL To Mr. Thomson. Solicits the sum 
of five pounds. "Fairest Maid on Devon 
Banks" - . .... 501 

CCCXLIIL To Mr. James Eurness. Soliciting 
the sum of ten pounds .... 501 

CCCXLLV. To James Graeie, Esq. His rheu- 
matism, &c. &c. — his loss of appetite . . 502 

Remarks on Scottish Songs and Ballads . 602 

The Border Tour 522 

The Highland Tour . . . . . 527 

Burns's Assignment of hi» Works . . 538 

GloBflsury . 6W 



LIFE 



OF 



ROBERT BURNS. 



&eA«.HT Burns, the chief of the peasant poets of Scotland, was born in a little mud wallel 
lottagc on the banks of Doon, near " Alloway's auld haunted kirk," in the shire of Ayr, on tht 
i5th day cf January, 1759. As a natural mark of the event, a sudden storm at the same moment 
jwept the land ; the gabel-wall of the frail dwelling gave way, and the babe-bard was hurried 
through a tempest of wind and sleet to the shelter of a securer hovel. He was the eldest bora 
of three sons and three daughters ; his father, William, who in his native Kincardineshire wrote 
his n&a:e Burness, was bred a gardener, and sought for work in the West; but coming from the 
lands of the noble family of the Keiths, a suspicion accompanied him that he had been out — as 
rebtllion was softly called — in the forty-five : a suspicion fatal to his hopes of rest and bread, in 
so byal a district; and it was only when the clergyman of his native parish certified his loyalty 
tbat he was permitted to toil. This suspicion of Jacobitism, revived by Burns himself, when he 
rose into fame, seems not to have influenced either the feelings, or the tastes of Agnes Brown, a 
young woman on the Doon, whom he wooed and married in December, 1757, when he was thirty- 
six years old. To support heir, he leased a small piece of ground, which he converted into a 
nursery and garden, and to shelter her, he raised with his own hands that humble abode where 
she gave birth to her eldest son. 

The elder Burns was a well-informed, silent, austere man, who endured no idle gaiety, nor 
indecorou-s language : while he relaxed somewhat the hard, stern creed of the Covenanting times, 
he enforced all the work-day, as well as sabbath-day observances, which the Calvinistic kirk 
requires, and scrupled at promiscuous dancing, as the staid of our own day scruple at the waltz. 
His wife was of a milder mood : she was blest with a singular fortitude of temper ; was as devout 
jf heart, s^s she was calm of mind ; and loved, while busied in her household concerns, to sweeten 
the bitterer moments of life, by chanting the songs and ballads of her country, of which her store 
was great. The garden and nursery prospered so much, that he was induced to widen his views- 
and by the help of his kind landlord, the laird of Doonholm, and the more questionable aid o^ 
borrowed money, he entered upon a neighbouring farm, named Mount Oiiphant, extending to a 
\iundred acres. This was in 1765 ; but the land was hungry and sterile; the seasons proved rain; 
and rouf^h ; the toil was certain, the reward unsure ; when to his sorrow, the laird of Doonholm — 
a generous Ferguson, — died : the strict terms of the lease, as well as the rent, were exacted bv 
ft harsh factor, and with his wife and children, he was obliged, after a losing struggle of six jears. 
to reliixiuish the farm, ard seek shelter on the grounds of Lochlea, some ten miles off, In th« 
parish of Tarbolton. Whftn, in after-days, men's characters were in the hands of his eldest 3on 
the scoundrel factor sat for that lasting portrait of insolence and wrong, in the " Twa Dogs." 

In this new farm William Burns seemed to strike root, and thrive. He was strong of b< iy an J 
»rd««it of mind ; every day brought increase of vigour to his three sons, who, though ver^ youngs 



SLxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNIi. 

already put their hands to the plough, the reap-hook, and the flail. But it eeeiTied that nothing 
which he undertook was decreed in the end to prosper : after four seasons of prosperity a change 
ensued : the farm was far from cheap ; the gains under any lease were then so little, that tb« 
loss of a few pounds was ruinous to a farmer : bad seed and wet seasons had their usual influenae : 
' The g'.oom of hermits and the moil of galley-slaves," as the poet, alluding to those days, said, 
were en lured to no purpose; when, to crown all, a difference arose between the landlord and the 
tenant, as to the terms of the lease ; and the early days of the poet, and the declining years of 
his father, were harassed by disputes, in which sensitive minds are sure to suffer. 

Amid these labours and disputes, the poet's father remembered the worth of religious and mora^ 
iistructioa: he took part of this upon himself. A week-day in Lochlea wore the sober looks of 
\ Sunday : he read the Bible and explained, as intelligent peasants are accustomed to do, the 
sense, when dark or difficult ; he loved to discuss the spiritual meanings, and gaze on the mystical 
splendours of the Revelaticns. He was aided in these labours, hrst, by the school-master of 
A.II0 way-mill, near the Boon; secondly, by John Murdoch, student of aivinity, who undertook to 
teach arithmetic, grammar, French, and Latin, to the boys of Lochlea, and the sons of five 
neighbouring farmers. Murdoch, who was an enthusiast in learning, much of a pedant, and such 
a judge of genius that he thought wit should always be laughing, and poetry wear an eternal 
smile, performed his task well : he found Robert to be quick in apprehension, and not afraid to 
study when knowledge was the reward. He taught him to turn verse into its natural prose order j 
to supply all the ellipses, and not to desist till the sense was clear and plain : he also, in their 
walks, told him the names of different objects both in Latin and French ; and though his know- 
ledge of these languages never amounted to much, he approached the grammar of the English 
tongue, through the former, which was of material use to him, in his poetic compositions. Burns 
was, even in those early days, a sort of enthusiast in all that concerned the glory of Scotland ; 
he used to fancy himself a soldier of the days of the Wallace and the Bruce : loved to strut after 
the bag-pipe and the drum, and read of the bloody struggles of his country for freedom and 
existence, till "a Scottish prejudice," he says, " was poured into my veins, which will boil there 
till the flood-gates of life are shut in eternal rest." 

In this mood of mind Burns was unconsciously approaching the land of poesie. In addition to 
the histories of the Wallace and the Bruce, he found, on the shelves of his neighbours, not onl'" 
whole bodies of divinity, and sermons without limit, but the works of some of the best English, 
as well as Scottish poets, together with songs and ballads innumerable. On these he loved to 
pore whenever a moment of leisure came; nor was verse his sole favourite ; he desired to drink 
knowledge at any fountain, and Guthrie's Grammar, Dickson on Agriculture, Addison's Spectator, 
Locke on the Human Understanding, and Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, were as 
welcome to his heart as Shakspeare, Milton, Pope, Thomson, and Young. There is a mystery in 
the workings of genius : with these poets in his head and hand, we see not that he has advanced 
one step iii the way in which he was soon to walk, <' Highland Mary" and '•Ta.m 0' Shanter" 
eprang from other inspirations. 

Burns lifts up the veil himself, from the studies which made him a poe^p. '' In my bojish 
days," he says to Moore, " I owed much to an old woman (Jenny Wilson) who resided in the 
family, remarkable for her credulity and superstition. She had, I suppose, the largest collection 
in the country of tales and songs, concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, 
npunkies, kelpies, elfcandles, dead-lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted 
towers, dragons, and other trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poesie ; but had so 
strong an effect upon my imagination that to this hour, in my nocturnal rjimbies, I sometimes 
keep a look-out on suspicious places." Here we have the young poet taking lerjsons in the cla«sic 
lore of his native land: in the school of Janet Wilson he profited largely; her tales gave a iiu«, 
all their own, to many noble effusions. But her teaching was at the hearth-stone : when he was 
in the fields, either driving a cart or walking to labour, he had* ever in his hand a collection of 
gongs, such as any stall in the land could supply him with ; and over these he pored, ballad by 
ballad, and verse by verse, noting the true, tender, and the natural sublime from affectation and 
jrastian *' To this," he said, " I am convinced that I owe much of my critic craft, such as it is." 



LETTER TO HIS FATHER. xx'^ 

0is mother, too, xinconsciously led him in the ways of the muse : she loved to recite or sing to him 
ft strange, but clever ballad, called " the Life and Age of Man:" this strain of piety and imagina- 
lion was in his mind when he wrote " Man was made to Mourn." 

He found other teachers — of a tenderer nature and softer influence. *• You know." he says to 
Moore, "our country custom of coupling a man and woman together as partners in the laboura 
of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn my partner was a bewitching creature, a year younger than 
aay»elf : she was in truth a bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass, and unwittingly to herself, initiated me in 
th&t delicious passion, which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and book-worra 
piiilosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys. How she caught the contagion I cannot tell; 1 
o»»ver expressly said I loved her : indeed I did not know myself why I liked so much to loiter 
behind with her, when returning in the evenings from our labours ; why the tones of her voice 
made my heart strings thrill like an ^olian harp, and particularly why my pulse beat such a 
furious ratan, when I looked and fingered over her little hand, to pick out the cruel nettle-stinga 
and thistles. Among other love-inspiring qualities, she sang sweetly, and it was her favourite 
reel to which I attempted to give an eml)odied vehicle in rhyme ; thus with me began love and 
verse." This intercourse with the fair part of the creation, was to his slumbering emotions, a 
voice from heaven to call them into life and poetry. 

From the school of traditionary lore and love. Burns now went to a rougher academy. Lochlea, 
though not producing fine crops of corn, was considered excellent for flax , and while the culti- 
vation of this commodity was committed to his father" and his brother Gilbert, he was sent to 
Irvine at Midsummer, 1781, to learn the trade of a flax-dresser, under one Peacock, kinsman to 
his mother. Some time before, he had spent a portion of a summer at a school in Kirkoswald, 
learning mensuration and land-surveying, where he had mingled in scenes of sociality with 
smugglers, and enjoyed the pleasure of a silent walk, under the moon, with the young and the 
beautiful. At Irvine he laboured by day to acquire a knowledge of his business, and at night he 
associated with the gay and the thoughtless, with whom he learnt to empty his glass, and indulge 
In free discourse on topics forbidden at Lochlea. He had one small room for a lodging, for which 
he gave a shilling a week : meat he seldom tasted, and his food consisted chiefly of oatmeal and 
potatoes sent from his father's house. In a letter to his father, written with great purity and 
Bimplicity of style, he thus gives a picture of h5mself, mental and bodily: "Honoured Sir, I have 
purposely delayed writing, in the hope that x should have the pleasure of seeing you on new 
years' day, but work comes so hard upon us that I do not choose to be absent on that account. 
My health is nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a little sounder, and on 
the whole, I am rather better than otherwise, though I mend by very slow degrees: the weak- 
ness of my nerves had so debilitated my mind that I dare neither review past wants nor look for- 
ward into futurity, for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces most unhappy 
efi'ects on my whole frame. Sometimes indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are a little 
lightened, I glimmer a little into futurity; but my principal and indeed my only pleasurable 
employment is looking backwards and forwards in a moral and religious way. I am quite trans- 
ported at the thought that ere. long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the 
pains and uneasinesses, and disquietudes of this weary life. As for the world, I despair of evei 
making a figure in it: I am not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. 1 
for jsee that poverty and obscurity probably await me, and I am in some measure prepared and 
laily preparing to meet them. I have but just time and paper to return you my grateful thanks 
for tl e lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, which were but too much neglected at the 
time of giving them, but which, I hope, have been remembered ere it is yet too late." This 
remarkable letter was written in the twenty-second year of his age ; it alludes to the illness 
which seems to have been the companion of his youth, a nervous headache, brought on by con- 
Itant toil and anxiety ; and it speaks of the melancholy which is the common attendant of genius, 
«.nd its sensibilities, aggravated by despair of distinction. The catastrophe which happened ere 
this letter was well in his father's hand, accords ill with quotations from the Bible, and hopes 
fixed in heaven : — "As we gave," he says, " a welcome carousal to the new year, the shop took 
ire, and burnt to ashes, and I was left, like a true poet, not worth a sixpence." 



xxvl LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

This disaster was followed by one more grievous: his father was well in years when he wat 
married, and age and a constitution injured by toil and disappointment, began to press him 
Jown, ere his sons had grown up to man's estate. On all sides the clouds began to darken' 
the farm was unprosperous : the speculations in flax failed; and the landlord of Lochlea, raising 
a question upon the meaning of the lease, concerning rotation of crop, pushed the matter to a 
lawpuit, alike ruinous to a poor man either in its success or its failure. *' After three years 
iossing and whirling," says Burns, "in the vortex of litigation, my father was just saved from 
the horrors of a jail by a consumption, which, after two years' promises, kindly stept in and 
jarried him away to where the 'wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.' His all 
jrent among the hell-hounds that prowl in the kennel of justice. The finishing e^il which brought 
ap the rear of this infernal file, was my constitutional melancholy being increased to such a 
degree, that for three months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be envied by the hopeless 
wretches who have got their mittimus, ' Depart from me, ye cursed.' " 

Robert Burns was now the head of his father's house. He gathered together the little that 
law and misfortune had spared, and took the farm of Mossgiel, near Mauchline, containing one 
hundred and eighteen acres, at a rent of ninety pounds a year : his mother and sisters took the 
domestic superintendence of home, barn, and byre ; and he associated his brother Gilbert in the 
labours of the land. It was made a joint affair: the poet was young, willing, and vigorous, and 
excelled in ploughing, sowing, reaping, mowing, and thrashing. His wages were fixed at seven 
pounds per annum, and such for a time was his care and frugality, that he never exceeded this 
small allowance. He purchased books on farming, held conversations with the old and the know- 
ing ; and said unto himself, ** I shall be prudent and wise, and my shadow shall increase in the 
land." But it was not decreed that these resolutions were to endure, and that he was to become 
a mighty agriculturist in the west. Farmer Attention, as the proverb says, is a good farmer, all 
the world over, and Burns was such by fits and by starts. But he who writes an ode on the sheep 
he is about to shear, a poem on the flower that he covers with the furrow, who sees visions on his 
way to market, who makes rhymes on the horse he is about to yoke, and a song on the girl who 
shows the whitest hands among his reapers, has small chance of leading a market, or of being 
laird of the fields he rents. The dreams of Burns were of the muses, and not of rising markets, 
of golden locks rather than of yellow corn : he had other faults. It is not known that William 
Burns was aware before his death that his eldest son had sinned in rhyme ; but we have Gilbert's 
assurance, that his father went to the grave in ignorance of his son's errors of a less venial kind 
— unwitting that he was soon to give a two-fold proof of both in " Rob the Rhymer's Address to 
his Bastard Child" — a poem less decorous than witty. 

The dress and condition of Burns when he became a poet were not at all poetical, in the minstrel 
meaning of the word. His clothes, coarse and homely, were made from home-grown wool, shorn 
ofl" his own sheeps' backs, carded and spun at his own fireside, woven by the village weaver, and 
when not of natural hodden-gray, dyed a half-blue in the village vat. They were shaped and 
sewed by the district tailor, who usually wrought at the rate of a groat a day and his food ; and 
as the wool wdt coarse, so also was the workmanship. The linen which he wore was home-grown, 
hoTQe-hackled, home-spun, home-woven, and home-bleached, and, unless designed for Sunda}* 
ase, was of coarse, strong harn, to suit the tear and wear of barn and field. His shoes came froiu 
rustic tanpif s, for most farmers then prepared their own leather ; were armed, sole and heel, with 
heavy, broad-headed nails, to endure the clod and the read: as hats were then little in use, save 
among small lairds or country gentry, westland heads were commonly covered with a coarse, 
broad, blue bonnet, with a stopple on its flat crown, made in thousands at lOlmarnock, and knowL 
In all lands by the name of scone bonnets. His plaid was a handsome red and white check; — 
/or pride in poets, «he said, was no sin — ^prepared of fine wool with more than common care by 
the hands of his mother and sisters, and woven with more skill than the village weaver was 
asually required to exert. His dwelling was in keeping with his dress, a low, thatched hovise, 
mth a kitchen, a bedroom and closet, with floors of kneaded clay, and ceilings of moorland turf; 
« few books on a shelf, thumbed by many a thumb ; a few hams drying above head in the smoke 



HIS EARLIEU /ERSES. xxvi. 

wrhich was in no haste to get out at the roof — a wooden settle, some oak chairs, chaff be is well 
covered with blankets, with a fire of peat and wood burning at a distanct from the gable wall, o» 
the middle of the floor. His food was as homely as his habitation, and consisted chiefly of oat- 
meal-porridge, barley-broth, and potatoes, and milk. How the muse happened to visit him iu 
this clay biggin, take a fancy to a clouterly peasant, and teach him strains of consummate beaatj 
and elegance, must ever be a matter of wonder to all those, and they are not few, who hold thai 
fcoble 'ientiments and heroic deeds are the exclusive portion of the gently nursed and the fa* 
'IcBcenied. 

Of the earlier verses of Burns few are preserved : when composed, he put them on paper, but 
ks kept them to himself: though a poet at sixteen, he seems not to have made even his brother 
his confidante till he became a man, and his judgment had ripened. He, however, made a littla 
clasped paper book his treasurer, and under the head of " Observations, Hints, Songs, and 
Scraps of Poetry," we find many a wayward and impassioned verse, songs rising little above the 
humblest country strain, or bursting into an elegance and a beauty worthy of the highest of 
minstrels. The first words noted down are the stanzas which he composed on his fair companion 
of the harvest-field, out of whose hands he loved to remove the nettle-stings and the thistles : the 
prettier song, beginning "Now westlin win's and slaughtering guns," written on the lass of 
Kirkoswald, with whom, instead of learning mensuration, he chose to wander under the light of 
the moon: a strain better still, inspired by the charms of a neighbouring maiden, of the name 
of Annie Ronald ; another, of equal merit, arising out of his nocturnal adventures among the 
lasses of the west ; and, finally, that crowning glory of all his lyric compositions, *' Green grow 
the rashes." This little clasped book, however, seems not to have been made his confidante till 
his twenty-third or twenty-fourth year: he probably admitted to its pages only the strains which 
he loved most, or such as had taken a place in his memory : at whatever age it was commenced, 
he had then begun to estimate his own character, and intimate his fortunes, for he calls himself 
in its pages " a man who had little art in making money, and still less in keeping it." 

We have not been told how welcome the incense of his songs rendered him to the rustic maidens 
of Kyle : women are not apt to be won by the charms of verse ; they have little sympathy with 
dreamers on Parnassus, and allow themselves to be influenced by something more substantial than 
the roses and lilies of the muse. Burns had other claims to their regard than those arising from poetic 
Bifill : he was tall, young, good-looking, with dark, bright eyes, and words and wit at will : he had a 
sarcastic sally for all lads who presumed to cross his path, and a soft, persuasive word for all lassea 
on whom he fixed his fancy : nor was this all — he was adventurous and bold in love trystes and 
love excursions : long, rough roads, stormy nights, flooded rivers, and lonesome places, were no 
letts to him ; and when the dangers or labours of the way were braved, he was alike skilful in 
eluding vigilant aunts, wakerife mothers, and envious or suspicious sisters : for rivals he had a 
blow as ready as he had a word, and was familiar with snug stack-yards, broomy glens, and nockgr 
of hawthorn and honeysuckle, where maidens love to be wooed. This rendered him dearer to 
woman's heart than all the lyric efl"usions of his fancy ; and when we add to such allurements, a 
Wirm, flowing, and persuasive eloquence, we need not wonder that woman listened and was won ; 
that one of the most charming damsels of the West said, an hour with him in the dark was wortb 
a lifetime of light with any other body; or that the accomplished and beautiful Duchess of 
& )rdon declared, in a latter day, that no man ever carried her so completely off her feet as 
Robert Burns. 

It is one of the delusions of the poet's critics and biographers, that the sources of his inspira* 
tion are to be found in the great classic poets of the land, with some of whom he had from bia 
youth been familiar : there is little or no trace of them in any of his compositions. He read 
and wondered — he warmed his fancy at their flame, he corrected his own natural taste by their^i 
\>ut he neither copied nor imitated, and there are but two or three allusions to Young and Shak- 
ipeare in all the range of his verse. He could not but feel that he was the scholar of a difi"erent 
•chool, and that his thirst was to be slaked at other fountains. The language in which those 
great bards embodied their thoughts was unapproachable to an Ayrshire peasant ; It was to him 
ft? an almost foreign tongue : he had to think and feel in the not ungraceful or mharmcnioul 



Kxviii LIFE OF R.0BE11T BUKiS'S. 

language zf his own vale, and then, in a manner, translate it into that of Poj e or of ThomsoDj 
with the additional difficulty of finding English words to express the exact meaning of those oi 
Scotland, which had chiefly been retained because equivalents could not be found in the mor€ 
elegant and grammatical tongue. Such strains as those of the polished Pope or the sublime! 
Milton were beyond his power, less from deficiency of genius than from lack of language : he 
could, indeed, write English with ease and fluency; but when he desired to be tender or impas- 
iicned, t( persuade or subdue, he had recourse to the Scottish, and he found it sufficient. 

The goddesses or the Dalilahs of the young poet's song were, like the language in which he 
wlebrate- them, the produce of the district; not dames high and exalted, but lasses of the bam 
aai of the byre, who had never been in higher company than that of shepherds or ploughmen, 
ox danced in a politer assembly than that of their fellow-peasants, on a barn-floor, to the sound 
of the district fiddle. Nor even of these did he choose the loveliest to lay out the wealth of his 
verse upon : he has been accused, by his brother among others, of lavishing the colours of hia 
fancy on very ordinary faces. *' He had always," says Gilbert, " a jealousy of people who were 
richer than himself ; his love, therefore, seldom settled on persons of this description. When ho 
selected any one, out of the sovereignty of his good pleasure, to whom he should pay his parti- 
cular attention, she was instantly invested with a sufficient stock of charms out of the plentiful 
stores of his own imagination : and there was often a great dissimilitude between his fair capti 
vator, as she appeared to others and as she seemed when invested with the attributes he gave 
her." "My heart," he himself, speaking of those days, observes, "was completely tinder, and 
was eternally lighted up by some goddess or other." Yet, it must be acknowledged that sufficient 
room exists for believing that Burns and his brethren of the West had very different notions of 
the captivating and the beautiful ; while they were moved by rosy cheeks and looks of rustic 
health, he was moved, like a sculptor, by beauty of form or by harmony of motion, and by 
expression, which lightened up ordinary features and rendered them captivating. Such, I have 
been told, were several of the lasses of the West, to whom, if he did not surrender his heart, he 
rendered homage ; and both elegance of form and beauty of face were visible to all in those of 
whom he afterwards sang — the Hamiltons and the Burnets of Edinburgh, and the Millers and 
M'Murdos of the Nith. 

The mind of Burns took now a wider range : he had sung of the maidens of Kyle in strains 
not likely soon to die, and though not weary of the softnesses of love, he desired to try his geniua 
on matters of a sterner kind — what those subjects were he tells us ; they were homely and at 
hand, of a native nature and of Scottish growth : places celebrated in Roman story, vales made 
famous in Grecian song — hills of vines and groves of myrtle had lew charms for him. "I am 
hurt," thus he writes in August, 1785, " to see other towns, rivers, woods, and haughs of Scot- 
land immortalized in song, while my dear native county, the ancient Baillieries of Carrick, Kyle, 
and Cunningham, famous in both ancient and modern times for a gallant and warlike race of 
inhabitants — a county where civil and religious liberty have ever found their first support and 
their asylum — a county, the birth-place of many famous philosophers, soldiers, and statesmen, 
and the scene of many great events recorded in history, particularly the actions of the glorious 
Wallace — yet we have never had one Scotch poet of any eminence to make the fertile banks of 
Irvine, the romantic woodlands and sequestered scenes of Ayr, and the mountainous sourvje and 
winding sweep of the Boon, emulate Tay, Forth, Ettrick, and Tweed. This is a complaint I would 
gladly remedy, but, alas! I am far unequal to the task, both in genius and education." To fill 
ap with glowing verse the outline which this sketch indicates, was to raise the long-laid spirit of 
jiationalsong — to waken a strain to which the whole land would yield response — a miracle unat- 
tempted — certainly unperformed — since the days of the Gentle Shepherd. It is true that the 
tongue of the muse had at no time been wholly silent ; that now and then &, burst of sublime woe, 
like the song of "Mary, weep no more for me," and of lasting merriment and humour, like that 
of " Tibbie Fowler," proved that the fire of natural poesie smouldered, if it did not blaze : while 
the social strains of the unfortunate Fergusson revived in the city, if not in the field, the memory 
»f him who sang the " Monk and the Miller's wife." But notwithstanding these and other pro- 
iuctions of equal merit, Scottish poesie, it must be owned, had lost much of its original ecetasj 



MOSSGIEL. Tx!l 



and fervour, and that the boldest efforts of the muse no more equalled the songs of Tmnhar, ol 
Douglas, of Lyndsay, and of James the Fifth, than the sound of an artificial cascade resemblel 
*be undying thunders of Corra. 

To accomplish this required an acquaintance with man beyond what the forge, the change-house, 
ani the market-place of the village supplied ; a look further than the barn-yard and the furrowed 
field, and a livelier knowledge and deeper feeling of history than, probably, Burns ever possessed. 
To all ready and accessible sources of knowledge he appears to have had recourse ; he sought 
matter for his muse in the meetings, religious as well as social, of the district — consorted srith 
staid matrons, grave plodding farmers — with those who preached as well as those who listened— 
(rith sharp-tongued attorneys, who laid^down the law over a Mauchline gill — with country squires, 
whose wisdom was great in the game-laws, and in contested elections — and with roving smug- 
glers, who at that time hung, as a cloud, on all the western coast of Scotland. In the companj 
of farmers and fellow-peasants, he witnessed scenes which he loved to embody in verse, saw pic- 
tures of peace and joy, now woven into the web of his song, and had a poetic impulse given to 
him both by cottage devotion and cottage merriment. If he was familiar with love and all ita 
outgoings and incomings — had met his lass in the midnight shade, or walked with her under the 
moon, or braved a stormy night and a haunted road for her sake — he was as well acquainted with 
the joys which belong to social intercourse, when instruments of music speak to the feet, when 
the reek of punchbowls gives a tongue to the staid and demure, and bridal festivity, and harvest- 
homes, bid a whole valley lift up its voice and be glad. It is more difficult to decide what poet^'-j 
use he could make of his intercourse with that loose and lawless class of men, who, from love cf 
gain, broke the laws and braved the police of their country : that he found among smugglers, aa 
he says, "men of noble virtues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested friendship, and modesty," 
is easier to believe than that he escaped the contamination of their sensual manners and prodi- 
gality. The people of Kyle regarded this conduct with suspicion : they were not to be expected 
to know that when Burns ranted and boused with smugglers, conversed with tinkers huddled in a 
kiln, or listened to the riotous mirth of a batch of *'randie gangrel bodies" as they "toomed 
their powks and pawned their duds," for liquor inPoosie Nansie's, he was taking sketches for the 
future entertainment and instruction of the world ; they could not foresee that from all this moral- 
strength and poetic beauty would arise. 

While meditating something better than a ballad to his mistress's eyebrow, he did not neglect 
to lay out the little skill he had in cultivating the grounds of Mossgiel. The prosperity in which 
he found himself in the first and second seasons, induced him to hope that good fortune had not 
yet forsaken him : a genial summer and a good market seldom come together to the farmer, but 
at first they came to Burns ; and to show that he was worthy of them, he bought books on agri 
culture, calculated rotatioa of crops, attended sales, held the plough with diligence, used the 
scythe, the reap-hook, and the flail, with skill, and the malicious even began to say that there 
was something more in him than wild sallies of wit and foolish rhymes. But the farm lay high, 
the bottom was wet, and in a third season, indifferent seed and a wet harvest robbe«l him at once 
of half his crop ; he seems to have regarded this as an intimation from above, that nothing which 
he undertook would prosper : and consoled himself with joyous friends and with the socitiy ef 
the muse. The judgment cannot be praise 1 which selected a farm with a wet cold bottom, and 
sowed it with unsound seed ; but that man who despairs because a wet season robs him of tb« 
fruits of the field, is unfit for the warfare of life, where fortitude is as much required as bj a 
general on a field of battle, when the tide of success threatens to flow against him. 'The peel 
seems to have believed, very early in life, that he was none of the elect of Mammon ; that he was too 
much of a genius ever to acquire wealth by steady labour, or by, as he loved *o call it, gin-horsfl 
j-Tudence, or grubbing industry. 

And yet there were hours and days in which Burns, even when the rain fell on his unhoused 
sheaves, did nqt wholly despair of himself: he laboured, nay sometimes he slaved on his farm; 
and at intervals of toil, sought to embellish his mind with such knowledge as might be useful, 
should chance, the goddess who ruled his lot, drop him upon some of the higher places of thfl 
land. He had, while he lived at Tarbolton, united with some half-dozen young men, all sons of 



XXX LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

farmei'S in that neighbourliood, in forming a club, of which the object was to charm &way a fen 

evening hours in the week with agreeable chit-chat, and the discussion of topics of econouay ol 
love. Of this little society the poet was president, and the first question they were called on to 
settle was this, *' Suppose a young man bred a farmer, but without any fortune, has it in hia 
power to marry either of two women ; the one a girl of large fortune, but neither handsome in 
person, nor agreeable in conversation, but who can manage the household affairs of a farm well 
enough ; the other of them, a girl every way agreeable in person, conversation, and behaviour, 
fcat without any fortune, which of them shall he choose?" This question was started by the 
poet, and once every week the club were called to the consideration of matters connected with 
rural life and industry : their expenses were limited to threepence a week ; and till the departure 
of Burns to the distant Mossgiel, the club continued to live and thrive ; on his removal it lost the 
spirit which gave it birth, and was heard of no more ; but its aims and its usefulness were revived 
in Mauchline, where the poet was induced to establish a society which only differed from the 
^ther in spending the moderate fines arising from non-attendance, on books, instead of liquor. 
Here, too, Burns was the president, and the members were chiefly the sons of husbandmen, whom 
he found, he said, more natural in their manners, and more agreeable than the self-sufficient 
mechanics of villages and towns, who were ready to dispute on all topics, and inclined to be con 
vinced on none. This club had the pleasure of subscribing for the first edition of the works of 
its great associate. It has been questioned by his first biographer, whether the refinement of 
mind, which follows the reading of books of eloquence and delicacy, — the mental improvement 
resulting from such calm discussions as the Tarbolton and Mauchline clubs indulged in, was not 
bjurious to men engaged in the barn and at the plough. A well-ordered mind will be strength- 
ened, as well as embellished, by elegant knowledge, while over those naturally barren and ungenial 
all that is refined or noble will pass as a sunny shower scuds over lumps of granite, bringing 
neither warmth nor life. , 

In the account which the poet gives to Moore of his early poems, he says little aVout his exqui- 
site lyrics, and less about "The Death and dying Words of Poor Mailie," or her "Elegy," the 
first of his poems where the inspiration of the muse is visible ; but he speaks with exultation of 
the fame which those indecorous sallies, " Holy Willie's Prayer" and "The Holy Tulzie" brought 
from some of the clergy, and the people of Ayrshire. The west of Scotland is ever in the van, 
when matters either political or religious are agitated. Calvinism was shaken, at this time, with 
a controversy among its professors, of which it is enough to say, that while one party rigidly 
adhered to the word and letter of the Confession of Faith, and preached up the palmy and whole- 
some days of the Covenant, the other sought to soften the harsher rules and observances of th« 
kirk, and to bring moderation and charity into its discipline as well as its councils. Both believedl 
themselves right, both were loud and hot, and personal, — bitter with a bitterness only known in 
religious controversy. The poet sided with the professors of the New Light, as the more tolerant 
were called, and handled the professors of the Old Light, as the other party were named, with 
the most unsparing severity. For this he had sufficient cause: — he had experienced the merci- 
Icssness of kirk-discipline, when his frailties caused him to visit the stool of repentance ; and 
moreover his friend Gavin Hamilton, a writer in Mauchline, had been sharply censured by the 
same authorities, for daring to gallop on Sundays. Moodie, of Riccarton, and Bussel, of Kilmar- 
nock, were the first who tasted of the poet's wrath. They, though professors of the Old Light, 
had quarrelled, and, it is added, fought: "The Holy Tulzie," which recorded, gave at the same 
time wings to the scandal; while for "Holy Willie," an elder of Mauchline, and an austere and 
hollow pretender to righteousness, he reserved the fiercest of all his lampoons. In " Holy Willie's 
Prayer," he lays a burning hand on the terrible doctrine of predestination: this is a satire, daring, 
personal, and profane. Willie claims praise in the singular, acknowledges folly in the plural, 
and makes neaven accountable for his sins ! In a similar strain of undevout satire, he congratu- 
lates Goudie, of Kilmarnock, on his Essays on Revealed Religion. These poems, particularly tho 
two latter, are the sharpest lampoons in the language. 

While drudging in the cause of the New Light controversialists. Burns was not unconsciously 
l^r engthening his hands for worthier toils: the applause which selfiih divines bestowed on Ml 



THE HOLY FAIPv— HALLOWEEN. xxxi 



Mittj, but graceless effusions, could not be enough for one who knew how fleeting the fame was 
«rmch came from the heat of party disputes ; nor was he insensible that songs of a beauty unknown 
for a century to national poesy, had been unregarded in the hue and cry which arose on account 
of " Holy Willie's Prayer" and " The Holy Tulzie." He hesitated to drink longer out of the 
agitated puddle of Calvinistic controversy, he resolved to slake his thirst at the pure well-springs 
of ratriot feeling and domestic love ; and accordingly, in the last and best of his controversial 
eompositions, he rose out of the lower regions of lampoon into the upper air of true poetry. 
'• The Holy Fair," though stained in one or two verses with personalities, exhibits a scene glowing 
irith character and incident and life : the aim of the poem is not so much to satirize one or tw3 
Old Light divines, as to expose and rebuke those almost indecent festivities, which in too many 
ol the \veste:n parishes accompanied the administration of the sacrament. In the earlier days 
of the church, when men were staid and sincere, it was, no doubt, an impressive sight to see rank 
succeeding rank, of the old and the young, all calm and all devout, seated before the tent of the 
oreacher, in the sunny hours of June, listening to his eloquence, or partaking of the mystic bieai 
ind wine; but in these our latter days, when discipline .is relaxed, along with the sedate and the 
pious come swarms of the idle and the profligate, whom no eloquence can edify and no solemn 
rite aflFect. On these, and such as these, the poet has poured his satire ; and since this desirable 
reprehension the Holy Fairs, east as well as west, have become more decorous, if not more 
devout. 

His controversial sallies were accompanied, or followed, by a series of poems which showed 
that national character and manners, as Lockhart has truly and happily said, were once more in 
the hands of a national poet. These compositions are both numerous and various : they record 
the poet's own experience and emotions; they exhibit the highest moral feeling, the purest patri 
otic sentiments, and a deep sympathy with the fortunes, both here and hereafter of his fellow-men, 
they delineate domestic manners, man's stern as well as social hours, and mingle the serious with 
the joyous, the sarcastic with the solemn, the mournful with the pathetic, the amiable with the 
gay, and all with an ease and unaffected force and freedom known only to the genius of Shak- 
Bpeare. In " The Twa Dogs" he seeks to reconcile the labourer to his lot, and intimates, by 
examples drawn from the hall as well as the cottage, that happiness resides in the humblest abodes, 
and is even partial to the clouted shoe. In " Scotch Drink" he excites man to love his country, 
by precepts both heroic and social ; and proves that while wine and brandy are the tipple of 
s'aves, whiskey and ale are the drink of the free: sentiments of a similar kind distinguish his 
"Earnest Cry and Prayer to the Scotch Representatives in the House of Commons," each of whom 
he exhorts by name to defend the remaining liberties and immunities of his country. A higher 
tone distinguishes the "Address to the Deil:" he records all the names, and some of them ar» 
strange ones ; and all the acts, and some of them are as whimsical as they are terrible, of thia 
far kenned and noted personage; to these he adds some of the fiend's doings as they stand in 
Scripture, together with his own erperiences ; and concludes by a hope, as unexpected as merciful 
and relenting, that Satan may not be exposed to an eternity of torments. "The Dream" is a 
humorous sally, and may be almost regarded as prophetic. The poet feigns himself present, in 
slumber, at the Ptoyal birth-day; and supposes that he addresses his majesty, on his household 
matters as well as the affairs of the nation. Some of the princes, it has been satirically hintedj 
behaved afterwards in such a way as if they wished that the scripture of the Burns shoul 1 je 
fulfilled: in thia strain he has imitated the license and equalled the wit of some of the el^ar 
ScDtti:?h Poets 

'*Tht Vision" is wholly serious; it exhibits the poet in one of those fits of despondency which 
the dull, who have no misgivings, never know: he dwells with sarcastic bitterness on the opportu 
nities which, for the sake of song, he has neglected of becoming wealthy, and is drawing a sad 
parallel between rags and riches, when the muse steps in and cheers his despondency, by assuring 
him of undying fame. "Halloween" is a strain of a more homely kind, recording the super 
Btitious beliefs, and no less superstitious doings of Old Scotland, on that night, when witches and 
elves and evil spirits are let loose among the children of men : it reaches far back into manners 
\nd customs, and is a pictuTe, cirious and valuable. The tastes and feelings of husbandmen 



Mxii LIFT^^ OY ROBERT BURNS. 

■ — • ■ — — ' ■ ' » 

Inspired " The old Farmer's A 5 Ve2? to his old mare Maggie," wMcli exhibits some pleasing recol« 
lections of his days of cour^gMp and hours of sociality. The calm, tranquil picture of household 
happiness and devotion in " the Cotter's Saturday Night," has induced Hogg, among otherji, ta 
believe tnat it has Ws than usual of the spirit of the poet, Isut it has all the spirit that was required ; 
the toil of the week has ceased, the labourer has returned to his well-ordered home — his " cozie 
ingle and his clean hearth-stane," — and with his wife and children beside him, turns his thoughts 
to the praise of that Ood to whom he owes all : this he performs with a reverence and an awe, 
at once natural, national, and poetic. *' The Mouse" is a brief and happy and very moving poem : 
happy, for it delineates, with wonderful truth and life, the agitation of the mouse when the coulter 
broke into its abode ; and moving, for the poet takes the lesson of ruin to himself, and feels the 
present and dreads the future. "The Mountain Daisy," once, more properly, called by Burns 
"The'Gowan," resembles " The Mouse" in incident and in moral, and is equally happy, in lan- 
guage and conception. "The Lament" is a dark, and all but tragic page, from the poet's own 
life. "Man was made to Mourn" takes the part of the humble and the homeless, against the 
coldness and selfishness of the wealthy and the powerful, a favourite topic of meditation with 
Burns. He refrained, for awMlo, from making "Death and Doctor Hornbook" public; a py/im 
which deviates from the offenBiveness of personal satire, into a strain of humour, at once airy 
and original. 

His epi^les in verse may be reckoned amongst his happiest productions : they are written in 
all moods of mind, and are, by turns, lively and sad; careless and serious; — now giving advice, 
then taking it; laughirg A*i learning, and lamenting its want; scoffing at propriety and wealth, 
yet admitting, that witKo it the one he cannot be wise, nor wanting the other, independent. The 
Epistle to David Filler is the first of these compositions : the poet has no news to tell, and no 
eerious question to a^X: he has only to communicate his own emotions of joy, or of sorrow, and 
these he relates and discusses with singular elegance as well as ease, twining, at the same time, into 
the fabric of his composition, agreeable allusions to the taste and affections of his correspondent. 
He seems to have rated the intellect of Sillar as the highest among his rustic friends : he pays him 
more deference, and addresses him in a higher vein than he observes to others. The Epistles to 
Lapraik, to Smith, and to Rankine, are in a more familiar, or social mood, and lift the veil from 
the darkness of the poet's condition, and exhibit a mind of first-rate power, groping, and that 
surely, its way to distinction, in spite of humility of birth, obscurity of condition, and the cold- 
ness of the wealthy or the titled. The epistles of other poets owe seme of their fame to the rank 
or the reputation of those to whom they are addressed ; those of Burns are written, one and all, 
to nameless and undistinguished men. Sillar was a country schoolmaster, Lapraik a moorland 
laird, Smith a small shop-keeper, and Rankine a farmer, who loved a gill and a joke. Yet 
these men were the chief friends, the only literary associates of the poet, during those early 
years, in which, with some exceptions, his finest works were written. 

Burns, while he was writing the poems, the chief of which we have named, was a labour.Uf 
husbandman on the little farm of Mossgiel, a pursuit which affords but few leisure hours for either 
reading or pondering ; but to him the stubble-field was musing-ground, and the walk behind the 
plough, a twilight saunter on Parnassus. As, with a careful hand and a steady eye, he guided 
his horses, and saw an evenly furrow turned up by the share, his thoughts were on other themes ; 
he was straying in haunted glens, when spirits have power — ^looking in fancy on the lasses 
"skelping barefoot," in silks and in scarlets, to a field-preaching — walking in imagination with 
tlie rosy widow, who on Halloween ventured to dip her left sleeve in the burn, where three lairds' 
land« met — making the " bottle clunk," with joyous smugglers, on a lucky run of gin or brandy — 
or if his thoughts at all approached his acts — he was moralizing on the daisy oppressed by the 
furrow which his own ploughshare had turned. That his thoughts were thus wandering we 
have his own testimony, with that of his brother Gilbert; and were both wanting, the certainty 
that he composed the greater part of his immortal poems in two years, from the summer of 1784 
to the summer of 1786, would be evidence sufficient. The muse must have been strong within 
bim, when, in spite of the rains and sleets of the "ever-dropping west" — when in defiance of the 
Sot and sweaty brows occasioned by reaping and thrashing — declining markets, and showery 



MOSSOIEL— HIS FAHMINa. xxxiii 

harvests — the clamour of his laird for his rent, and the tradesman for his account, he persevered 
in song, and sought solace in verse, when all other solace was denied him. 

The rircumstances under which his principal poems were composed, have been related: the 
•♦Lar^ent of Mailie" found its origin in the catastrophe of a pet ewe; the *• Epistle to Sillar" 
was <^onfided by the poet to his brother while they were engaged in weeding the kale-yard ; the 
•' Address to the Deil" was suggested by the many strange portraits which belief or fear had 
d'-awn of Satan, and was repeated by the one brother to the other, on the way with their carts Oa 
the kiln, for lime; the "Cotter's Saturday Night" originated in the reverence with which the 
worship of God was conducted in the family of the poet's father, and in the solefnn tone wit?i 
which he desired his children to compose themselves for praise and prayer; "the Mouse," and 
its moral companion "the Daisy," were the offspring of the incidents which they relate; and 
"Death and Doctor Hornbook" was conceived at a freemason-meeting, where the hero of the 
piece had shown too much of the pedant, and composed on his way home, after midnight, by the 
noet, while his head was somewhat dizzy with drink. One of the most remarkable of his compo- 
sitions, the "Jolly Beggars," a drama, to which nothing in the language of either the North or 
iSouth can be compared, and which was unknown till after the death of the author, was suggested 
by a scene which he saw in a low ale-house, into which, on a Saturday night, most of the sturdy 
beggars of the district had met to sell their meal, pledge their superfluous rags, and drink their 
gains. It may be added, that he loved to walk in solitary spots ; that his chief musing ground 
was the banks of the Ayr ; the season most congenial to his fancy that of winter, when the winds 
were heard in the leafless woods, and the voice of the swollen streams came from vale and hill ; 
aftd that he seldom composed a whole poem at once, but satisfied with a few fervent verses, laid 
tJie subject aside, till the muse summoned him to another exertion of fancy. In a little back 
closet, still existing in the farm-house of Mossgiel, he committed most of his poems to paper. 

But while the poet rose, the farmer sank. It was not the cold clayey bottom of his ground, 
nor the purchase of unsound seed-corn, nor the fluctuation in the markets alone, which injured 
him ; neither was it the taste for freemason socialities, nor a desire to join the mirth of comrades, 
either of the sea or the shore ; neither could it be wholly imputed to his passionate following of the 
pofter sex — indulgence in the " illicit rove," or giving way to his eloquence at the feet of one whom 
he lovpd and honoured; other farmers indulged in the one, or suffered from the other, yet were 
prosperous. His want of success arose from other causes; his heart was not wit> nis task, save 
by fits and starts : he felt he was designed for higher purposes than ploughing And harrowing, 
and sowing, and reaping: when the sun called on him, after a shower, to come to the plough, or 
whei? the ripe corn invited the sickle, or the ready market called for the measured grain, tht 
poet was under other spells, and was slow to avail himself of those golden moments, which come 
but oiice, in the season. To this may be added, a too superficial knowledge of the art of farming, 
ai^d a want of intimacy with the nature of the soil he was called to cultivate. He could speak 
fluently of leas, and faughs, and fallows, of change of seed and rotation of crops, but practical 
knowledge and application were required, and in these Burns was deficient. The moderate gain 
which those dark days of agriculture brought to the economical farmer, was not obtained : the 
close, the all but niggardly care by which he could win and keep his crown-pieces, — gold was 
seldom in the farmer's hand, — was either above or below the mind of the poet, and Mossgiel, 
which, in the hands of an assiduous farmer, might have made a reasonable return for labour, wai 
unproductive, under one who had little skill, less economy, and no taste for the task. 

Other reasons for his failure have been assigned. It is to the credit of the moral sentiments 
:f the husbandmen of Scotland, that when omc of their class forgets what virtue requires, and 
dishonours, without reparation, even the humblest of the maidens, he is not allowed to go unpun- 
ished. No proceedings take place, perhaps one hard word is not spoken ; but he is regarded with 
loathing by the old and the devout; he is looked on by all with cold and reproachful eyes — sorrow 
IS foretold as his lot, sure disaster as his fortune ; and if these chance to arrive, the only sympathy 
expressed is, "What better could he expect?" Something of this sort befel Burns: he had 
already satisfied the kirk in the matter of " Sonsie, Bmirkmg, dear-bought Bess," his daughter, 
hy cne of his motl er's maids ; and uow, to use his own words, he was brought within poiat-blank 
3 



sxxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURxVS. 

■ ^ ~ 

of tlie heaviest metal of the kirk by a similar folly. The fair transgressor, "both for he^ father's 
sake and her own youth, had a large share of public sympathy. Jean Armour, ior it is of her 1 
speak, was in her eighteenth yi;ar; with dark eyes, a handsome foot, and a melodious tongue, shfl 
made her way to the poet's heart — and, as their stations in life were equal, it seemed that tney 
had only to be satisfied themselves to render their unioiL easy. Lui her father, m audi clou ttt 
being a very devout man, was a zealot of the Old Light; and Joan, dreading his res'^^ntment, 
was willing, while she loved its unforgiven satirist, to love Iiita '.n secret, in the hope that ibj 
tioe would come when she might safely avow it: she admitted the poet, therefore, tc hei con-parj 
in io>nesome places, and walks beneath the moon, where they both torgot tiiemselves, and were k\ 
[&%% obliged to own a private marriage as a protection from kirk censure. Tne professors of lk« 
Old Light rejoiced, since it brought a scoffing rhymer within reach of their hand; but her father 
felt a twofold sorrow, because of the shame of a favourite daughter, and for having committed 
the folly Avith one both loose in conduct and profane of speech. He had caus^ to be angry, but 
his anger, through his zeal, became tyrannous : in the exercise of what he called a father's power, 
he compelled his child to renounce the poet as her husband and burn the marriage-lines ; for ha 
regarded her marriage, without the kirk's permission, with a man so utteily cast away, as a worse 
crime than her folly. So blind is anger! She could renounce neither hfer husband lAor his off- 
spring in a lawful way, and in spite of the destruction of the marriage lines, and renouncinjt wi« 
name of wife, she was as much Mrs. Burns as marriage could make her. No one concerned seemed 
to think so. Burns, who loved her tenderly, went all but mad when she renounced him : he gave 
up his share of Mossgiel to his brother, and roamed, moody and idle, about the land, with no 
better aim in life than a situation in one of our western sugar-isles, and a vague hope of distinction 
as a poet. 

How the distinction which he desired as a poet was to be obtained, was, to a poor bard in a 
provincial place, a sore puzzle : there were no enterprising booksellers in the western land, and 
it was not to be expected that the printers of either Kilmarnock or Paisley had money to expend 
on a speculation in rhyme : it is much to the honour of his native county that the publication 
which he wished for was at last made easy. The best of his poems, in his own handwriting, had 
found their way into the hands of the Ballantynes, Hamiltons,- Parkers, and Mackenzies, and were 
much admired. Mrs. Stewart, of Stair and Afton, a lady of distinction and taste, had made, 
accidentally, the acquaintance both of Burns and some of his songs, and was ready to befriend 
him ; and so favourable was the impression on all hands, that a subscription, sufficient to defray 
the outlay of paper and print, was soon filled up — one hundred copies being subscribed for by the 
Parkers alone. He soon arranged materials for a volume, and put them into the hands of a printer 
m Kilmarnock, the Wee Johnnie of one of his biting epigrams. Johnnie was startled at the 
unceremonious freedom of most of the pieces, and asked the poet to compose one of modest lan- 
guage and moral aim, to stand at the beginning, and excuse some of those free ones which followed : 
Burns, whose " Twa Dogs" was then incomplete, finished the poem at a sitting, and put it in the 
van, much to his printer's satisfaction. If the "Jolly Beggars" was omitted for any other cause 
than its freedom of sentiment and language, or "Death and Doctor Hornbook" from any other 
feeling than that of being too personal, the causes of their exclusion have remained a secret. U 
is less easy to account for the omission of many songs of high merit which he had among hi« 
papers perhaps he thought those which he selected were sufficient to test the taste of th^f 
public. Before he printed the whole, he, with the consent of his brother, altered his name froE 
BurneES to Burns, a change which, I am told, he in after years regretted. 

In the summer of the year 1786, the little volume, big with the hopes and fortunes of the bard, 
made its appearance : it was entitled simply, " Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect; by Robert 
Burns ;'' and accompanied by a modest preface saying, that he submitted his book to his country 
Wrlth fear and with trembling, since it contained little of the art of poesie, and at the best was 
but a voice given, rude, he feared, ai^vl uncouth, to the loves, the hopes, and the fears of his own 
bosom. Had a summer sun risen on a winter morning, it could not have surprised the Lowlands 
of Scotland more than this Kilmarnock volume surprised and delighted the people, one anil alL 
The milkmaid sang his songs, the ploughman repeated his poems; the old quoted both, and eves 



HIS FIRST VOLUME OF POEMS. 



S:xx> 



Ihe devout rejoiced that idle verse had at last mixed a tone of morality with its mirth. Th« 
'^jime penetrated even into Nithsdale. "Keep it out of the way of your children," said a 
Cameronian divine, when he lent it to my father, " lest ye find them, as I found mine, reading it 
on the Sabbath." No wonder that such a volume made its way to the hearts of a peasantry 
whose taste in poetry had been the marvel of many writers : the poems were mostly on topic? 
with which they were familiar: the language was that of the fireside, raised above the vulga.iitie9 
of common life, by a purifying spirit of expression and the- exalting fervour of inspiration : an«Jl 
kbere was such a brilliant and graceful mixture of the elegant and the homely, the lofty and the 
!#■«, the familiar and the elevated — such a rapid succession of scenes which moved to tenderness 
sr tears ; or to subdued mirth or open laughter — unlocked for allusions to scripture, or touches 
yf barcasm and scandal — of superstitions to scare, and of humour to deligjit — while through the 
whole was diff'used, as the scent of flowers through summer air, a moral meaning — a sentimental 
oeauty, which sweetened and sanctified all. The poet's expectations from this little venture were 
Lumble : he hoped as much money from it as would pay for his passage to the West Indies, where 
ae proposed to enter into the service of some of the Scottish settlers, and help to manage the 
double mystery of sugar-making and slavery. 

The hearty applause which I have recorded came chiefly from the husbandman, the shepherd, 
and the mechanic : the approbation of the magnates of the west, though not less warm, was 
longer in coming. Mrs. Stewart of Stair, indeed, commended the poems and cheered their 
author : Dugald Stewart received his visits wsith pleasure, and wondered at his vigour of couver- 
eation as much as at his muse : the door of the house of Hamilton was open to him, where the 
table was ever spread, and the hand ever ready to help : while the purses of the Ballantynea 
and the Parkers were always as open to him as were the doors of their houses. Those persoixii 
must be regarded as the real patrons of the poet : the high names of the district are not to ba 
found among those who helped him with purse and patronage in 1786, that yeai ^f deep distress 
and high distinction. The Montgomerys came with their praise when his famv was up ; the 
Kennedys and the Boswells were silent : and though the Cunninghams gave effectual aid, it waa 
when the muse was crying with a loud voice before him, "Come all and see the man whom I 
delight to honour." It would be unjust as well as ungenerous not to mention the name of Mrs 
Tuulop among the poet's best and early patrons r the distance at which she lived from Mossgiel 
had kept his name from her till his poems appeared : but his works induced her to desire hiii 
acquaintance, and she became his warmest and surest friend. 

To say the truth, Burns endeavoured in every honourable way to obtain the notice of those who 
had influence in the land : he copied out the best of his unpublished poems in a fair hand, and 
inserting them in his printed volume, presented it to those who seemed slow to buy : he rewarded 
the notice of this one with a song — the attentions of that one with a sally of encomiastic verse : 
re left psalms of his own composing in the manse when he feasted with a divine : he enclosed 
"'Holy Y/illie's Prayer," with an injunction to be grave, to one who loved mirth: he sent thti 
" Holy Fair" to one whom he invited to drink a gill out of a mutchkin stoup, at Mauchlina 
market ; and on accidentally meeting with Lord Daer, he immediately commemorated the event 
in a sally of verse, of a strain more free and yet as flattering as ever flowed from the lips of a 
court bard. While musing over the names of those on whom fortune had smiled, yet who ha<J 
neglected to smile on him, he remembered that he had met Miss Alexander, a young beauty of 
the wost, in the walks of Ballochroyle; and he recorded the impression which this fair visicK 
made on him in a song of unequalled elegancr and melody. He had met her in the woods ir 
July, on the 18th of November he sent her the song, and reminded her of the circumstance from 
jphich it arose, in a letter which it is evident he had laboured to render polished and complimen 
iary. The young lady took no notice of either the song or the poet, though willing, it is said, tc 
hear of both now : — this seems to have been the last attempt he made on the taste or the sympa- 
thies of the gentry of his native district: for on the very day following we find him busy in mak- 
ing arrangements for his departure to Jamaica. 

For this step Burns had more than sufficient reasons : the profits of his volume amounted M 
5ttle IT ore than enough to waft him across the Atlantic: Wee Johnnie, though the edition waf 



txxvi LIFE OF KOBERT BURNS. 

t,ll sold, refused to risk another on speculation: his friends, both Ballantynes and Parken, 
volunteered to relieve the printer's anxieties, but the poet declined their bounty, and gloomily 
indented himself in a ship about to sail from Greenock, and called on his muse to take farewell 
of Caledonia, in the last song he ever expected to measure in his native land. That fine lyric, 
siginniDg '' The gloomy night is gathering fast," was the offspring of these moments of- regret 
and sorow, His feelings were not expressed in song alone: he remembered his mother and hig 
aafural daughter, and made an assignment of all that pertained to him at Mossgiel — and tha< 
was \ at little — and of all the advantage which a cruel, unjust, and insulting law allowed in the 
proceeds of his poems, for their support and behoof. This document was publicly read in the 
presence of the poet, at the market-cross of Ayr, by his friend William Chalmers, a notary public. 
Even this step was to Burns one of danger : some ill-advised person had uncoupled the merciless 
pack of the law at his heels, and he was obliged to shelter himself as he best could, in woods, it is 
said, by day and in barns by night, till the final hour of his departure came. That hour arrived, 
and his chest was on the way to the ship, when a letter was put into his hand which seemed to 
light him to brighter prospects. 

Among the friends whom his merits had procured him was Dr. Laurie, a district clergyman, 
who had taste enough to admire the deep sensibilities as well as the humour of the poet, and tho 
generosity to make known both his works and his worth to the warm-hearted and amiable Black- 
lock, who boldly proclaimed him a poet of the first rank, and lamented that he was not in Edinburgh 
to publish another edition of his poems. Burns was ever a man of impulse : he recalled his chest 
from Greenock ; he relinquished the situation he had accepted on the estate of one Douglas ; took 
a secret leave of his mother, and, without an introduction to any one, and unknown personally to 
all, save to Dugald Stewart, away he walked, through Glenap, to Edinburgh, full of new hope 
and confiding in his genius. When he arrived, he scarcely knew what to do : he hesitated to call 
on the professor ; he refrained from making himself known, as it has been supposed he did, to 
the enthusiastic Blacklock ; but, sitting down in an obscure lodging, he sought out an obscur© 
printer, recommended by a humble comrade from Kyle, and began to negotiate for a new edition 
of the Poems of the Ayrshire Ploughman. This was not the way to go about it : his barge hsxd 
well nigh been shipwrecked in the launch ; and he might have lived to regret the letter which 
hindered his voyage to Jamaica, had he not met by chance in the street a gentleman of the west, 
of the name of Dalzell, who introduced him to the Earl of Glencairn, a nobleman whose classic 
education did not hurt his taste for Scottish poetry, and who was not too proud to lend his help- 
ing hand to a rustic stranger of such merit as Burns. Cunningham carried him to Creech, then 
the Murray of Edinburgh, a shrewd man of business, who opened the poet's eyes to his true 
interests : the first proposals, then all but issued, were put in the fire, and new ones printed and 
diffused over the island. The subscription was headed by half the noblemen of the north: the 
Caledonian Hunt, through the interest of Glencairn, took six hundred copies : duchesses and 
countesses swelled the list, and such a crowding to write down names had not been witnessed 
since the signing of the solemn league and covenant. 

While the subscription-papers were filling and the new volume printing on a paper and in a 
i/p»e worthy of such high patronage. Burns remained in Edinburgh, where, for the winter season, 
b? was a lion, and one of an unwonted kind. Philosophers, historians, and scholars had shaken 
fee elegant coteries of the city with their wit, or enlightened them with their learning, but they 
Wfers all men who had been polished by polite letters or by intercourse with high life, and thert 
was a gameness in their very dress as well as address, of which peers and peeresses had become 
weary They therefore welcomed this rustic candidate for the honour of giving wings to theii 
hours of lassitude and weariness, with a welcome more than common ; and when his approach 
was announced, the polished < ircle looked for the advent of a lout from the plough, in whose 
ancouth manners and embarrassed address they might find matter both for mirth and wonder. 
Put they met with a barbarian who was not at all barbarous : as the poet met in Lord Daer feel- 
ings and sentiments as natural as those of a ploughman, so they met in a ploughman manners 
worthy of a lord : his air was easy and unperplexed : his address was perfectly well-bred, and 
eleganl in its simplicity : he felt neither eclipsed by the titled nor struck dumli' before the 



HIGHLAND MARY. xxxti> 



teamed and the eloquent, but took his station with the ease and grace of one bo^n to it. In thi 
Bociety of men alone he spoke out : he spared neither his wit, his humour, nor his sarcasm — ht 
geemed to say to all — " I am a man, and you are no more ; and why should I not act and speals 
like one ?" — it was remarked, however, that he had not learnt, or did not desire, to conceal hii? 
emotions — that he commended with more rapture than was courteous, and contradicted with mare 
bluntness than was accounted polite. It was thus with him in the company of men : when wcn'aa 
approached, his look altered, his eye beamed milder ; all that was stern in his nature under wo»* 
a change, and he received them with deference, but with a consciousness that he coula win tLec 
attention as he had won that of others, who differed, indeed, from them only in the texture of 
their kirtles. This natural power of rendering himself acceptable to women had been observed 
and envied by Sillar, one of the dearest of his early comrades; and it stood him in good stead now, 
when he was the object to whom the Duchess of Gordon, the loveliest as well as the wittiest of 
women — directed her discourse. Burns, she afterwards said, won the attention of the Edinburgh 
ladies by a deferential way of address — by an ease and natural grace of manners, as new as ii 
was unexpected — that he told them the stories of some of his tenderest songs or liveliest poems 
in & style quite magical — enriching his little narratives, which had one and all the merit of being 
short, with personal incidents of humour or of pathos. 

In a party, when Dr. Blair and Professor Walker were present. Burns related the circumstances 
under which he had composed his melancholy song, " The gloomy night is gathering fast," in a 
way oven more touching than the verses : and in the company of the ruling beauties of the time, 
he hesitated not to lift the veil from some of the tenderer parts of his own history, and give them 
glimpses of the romance of rustic life. A lady of birth — one of his most willing listeners — used; 
I am told, to say, that she should never forget the tale which he related of his affection for Marji 
Campbell, his Highland Mary, as he loved to call her. She was fair, he said, and affectionate 
and as guileless as she was beautiful ; and beautiful he thought her in a very high degree. The 
first time he saw her was during one of his musing walks in the woods of Montgomery Castle , and 
the first time he spoke to her was during the merriment of a harvest-kirn. There were others 
there who admired her, but he addressed her, and had the luck to win her regard from them all. 
He soon found that she was the lass whom he had long sought, but never before found — that her 
good looks were surpassed by her good sense ; and her good sense was equalled by her disci otion 
and modesty. He met her frequently : she saw by his looks that he was sincere ; she put full 
trust in his love, and used to wander with him among the green knowes and stream-banks till the 
Bun went down and the moon rose, talking, dreaming of love and the golden days which awaited 
them. He was poor, and she had only her half-year's fee, for she was in the condition of a ser- 
vant ; but thoughts of gear never darkened their dream : they resolved to wed, and exchanged 
vows of constancy and love. They plighted their vows on the Sabbath to render them more 
sacred — they made them by a burn, where they had courted, that open nature might be a witness 
— they made them over an open Bible, to show that they thought of God in this mutual act — ana 
when they had done they both took water in their hands, and scattered it in the air, to intimate 
that as the stream was pure so were their intentions. They parted when they did this, but thty 
parted never to meet more : she died in a burning fever, during a visit to her relations to prepare 
for her marriage ; and all that he had of her was a lock of her long bright hair, and her Bil le^, 
which she exchanged for his. 

Even with the tales which he related of rustic love and adventure his own story mingled ; ani 
iadies of rank heard, for the first time, that in all that was romantic in the passion of love^ i.nd 
in all that was chivalrous in sentiment, men of distinction, both by education and birth, were at 
least equalled by the peasantry of the land. They listened with interest, and inclined their 
feathers beside the bard, to hear how love went on in the west, and in no case it ran quite smooth 
Sometimes young hearts were kept asunder by the sordid feelings of pa.rents, who could not be 
persuaded to bestow their daughter, perhaps an only one, on a wooer who could not count penny 
for penny, and number cow for cow: sometimes a mother desired her daughter to look higher than 
to one of her station ; for her beauty and her education entitled her to match among th« 
Uui Is, ""ather ^han the tenants- and sometimes, the devotional tastes of 'both father and mother 



xxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, 



approving of i)ersonal looks and connexions, were averse to see a dauglaler bestow her hand oq 
one, wlios(3 language in religion was indiscreet, and whose morals were suspected. Yet, neither 
♦ he vigilance of fathers, nor the suspicious care of aunts and mothers, could succeed in keeping 
those asunder whose hearts were together ; but in these meetings circumspection and invention 
were necessary : all fears were to be lulled by the seeming carelessness of the lass, — all perila 
were to be met and braved by the spirit of the lad. His home, perhaps, was at a distance, and 
he bad wild woods to come through, and deep streams to pass, before he could see the signal-light, 
now shown and now withdrawn, at her window ; he had to approach with a quick eye and a wary 
foot, lest a father or a brother should see, and deter him : he had sometimes to wish for a c'oud 
upon the moon, whose light, welcome to him on his way in the distance, was likely to betray him 
when near ; and he not unfrequently reckoned a wild night of wind and rain as a blessing, since 
it helped to conceal his coming, and proved to his mistress that he was ready to brave all for her 
Bake. Of rivals met and baffled ; of half-willing and half-unconsenting maidens, persuaded and 
won ; of the light-hearted and the careless becoming aflfectionate and tender ; and the coy, the 
proud, and the satiric being gained by " persuasive words, and more persuasive sighs," as damea 
had been gained of old, he had tales enow.* The ladies listened, and smiled at the tender narra- 
tives of the poet. 

Of his appearance among the sons as well as the daughters of men, we have the account of 
Dugald Stewart. "Burns," says the philosopher, " came to Edinburgh early in the winter : the 
attentions which he received from all ranks and descriptions of persons, were such as would have 
turned any head but his own. He retained the same simplicity of manners and appearance wbi<'.h 
had struck me so forcibly when I first saw him in the country : his dress was suited to his station ; 
plain and unpretending, with sufficient attention to neatness : he always wore boots, and, when on 
more than usual ceremony, buckskin breeches. His manners were manly, simple, and independent , 
strongly expressive of conscious genius and worth, but without any indication of forwardness, 
arrogance, or vanity. He took his share in conversation, but not more than belonged to him, 
and listened with apparent deference on subjects where his want of education deprived him of 
the means of information. If there had been a little more of gentleness and accommodation in 
his temper, he would have been still more interesting ; but he had been accustomed to give law 
in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance, and his dread of anything approaching to meanness or 
Bervility, rendered his manner somewhat decided and hard. Nothing perhaps was more remark- 
able among his various attainments, than the fluency and precision and originality of language, 
when he spoke in company ; more particularly as he aimed at purity in his turn of expressionj 
and avoided niore successfully than most Scotsmen, the peculiarities of Scottish phrase 3logy. 
From his conversation I should have pronounced him to have been fitted to excel in whatever 
walk of ambition he had chosen to exert his abilities. He was passionately fond of the beautiea 
of nature, and I recollect he once told me, when I was admiring a distant prospect in one of our 
morning walks, that the sight of so many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind, which 
none could understand who had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and worth which cot- 
tages contained." 

Such was the impression which Burns made at first on the fair, the titled, and the learned of 
Edinburgh ; an impression which, though lessened by intimacy and closer examination on the 
part of the men, remained unimpaired, on that of the softer sex, till his dying-day. His cora 
pany, during the season of balls and festivities, continued to be courted by all who desired ru he 
reckoned gay or polite. Cards of invitation fell thick on him ; he was not more welcome to ihQ 
plumed and jewelled groups, whom her fascinating Grace of Gordon gathered about her, than he 
was to the grave divines and polished scholars, who assembled in the rooms of Stewart, or Blair*, 
or Robertson. The classic socialities of Tytler, afterwards Lord Woodhouslee, or the elaborate 
supper-tables of the whimsical Monboddo, whose guests imagined they were entertained in th« 
manner of Lucullus or of Cicero, were not complete without the presence of the ploughman of 
Kyle ; and the feelings of the rustic poet, facing such companies, though of surprise and delighl 
»t first, gradually subsided, he said, as he discerned, that man differed from man only in tb« 
\ )ljsh, and not in the grain. But Edinburgh offered tables and entertainers of a less orderl/ 



SOCIETY OF EDINBURGH. xxxu 

%nd staid character than those I have named — where the glass circulated with greater rapidity ; 
<fhere the wit flowed more freely; and where there were neither highbred ladies to charm con- 
versation within the bounds of modesty, nor serious philosophers, nor grave divines, to set a limit 
to the license of speech, or the hours of enjoyment. To these companions — and these were all 
of the better classes, the levities of the rustic poet's wit and humour were as welcome as were 
the tenderest of his narratives to the accomplished Duchess of Gordon and the beautiful Misi 
Burnet of Monboddo ; they raised a social roar not at all classic, and demanded and provoked 
us sallies of wild humour, or indecorous mirth, with as much delight as he had witnessed amon j' 
ihe lads of Kyle, when, at mill or forge, his humorous sallies abounded as the ale flowed. Iq 
tliese enjoyments the rough, but learned William Nicol, and the young and amiable Robert Ainaj- 
lie shared : the name of the poet was coupled with those of profane wits, free livers, and that 
class of half-idle gentlemen who hang about the courts of law, or for a season or two wear the 
livery of Mars, and handle cold iron. 

Edinburgh had still another class of genteel convivialists, to whom the poet was attracted by 
principles as well as by pleasure ; these were the relics of that once numerous body, the Jacobites, 
who still loved to cherish the feelings of birth or education rather taan of judgment, and toasted 
the name of Stuart, when the last of the race had renounced his pretensions to a throne, for the 
Bake of peace and the cross. Young men then, and high names were among them, annually met 
on the pretender's birth-day, and sang songs in which the white rose of Jacobitism flourished ; 
toasted toasts announcing adiicrenjo to Ine m^le line ol the Bruce and tht Stuari, anci lidtuned 
t) the strains of the laureate of the day, who prophesied, in drink, the dismissal of the intrusive 
Hanoverian, by the right and might of the righteous and disinherited line. Burns, who wa-s 
descended from a northern race, whose father was suspected of having drawn the claymore in 
1745, and who loved the blood of the Keith-Marishalls, under whose banners his ancestors had 
marched, readily united himself to a band in whose sentiments, political and social, he was a sharer. 
He was received with acclamation : the dignity of laureate was conferred upon him, and his 
inauguration ode, in which he recalled the names and the deeds of the Grahams, the Erskines, 
the Boyds, and the Gordons, was applauded for its fire, as well as for its sentiments. Yet, though 
he ate and drank and sang with Jacobites, he was only as far as sympathy and poesie went, of 
their number : his reason renounced the principles and the religion of the Stuart line ; and though 
he shed a tear over their fallen fortunes — though he sympathized with the brave and honourable 
names that perished in their cause — though he cursed " the butcher, Cumberland," and the bloody 
spirit which commanded the heads of the good and the heroic to be stuck where they would afi'righi 
the passer-by, and pollute the air — he had no desire to see the splendid fabric of constitutional 
freedom, which the united genius of all parties had raised, thrown wantonly down. His Jacobitisia 
infiuenced, not his head, but his heart, and gave a mournful hue to many of his lyric compositions. 

Meanwhile his poems were passing through the press. Burns made a few emendations of those 
pabliihel in the Kilmarnock edition, and he added others which, as he expressed it, he had 
carded and spun, since he passed Glenbuck. Some rather coarse lines were softened or omitted! 
in the "Twa Dogs ;" others, from a change of his personal feelings, were made in the '* Vision:'' 
'* Death and Doctor Hornbook," excluded before, was admitted now: the "Dream'' was retained, 
is spite of the remonstrances of Mrs. Stewart, of Stair, and Mrs. Dunlop ; and the ** Brigs of 
^yr," in compliment to Ms patrons in his native district, and the ** Address to Edinburgh," m 
1 jnour of his titled and distinguished friends in that metropolis, were printed for the first time. 
flc was unwilling to alter what he had once printed : his friends, classic, titled, and rustic, found 
hit 3t-ibborn and unpliable, in matters of criticism ; yet he was genelully of a complimental 
DC? jd : he loaded the robe of Coila in the " Vision," with more scenes than it could well contain, 
tiiat he might include in the landscape, all the country-seats of his friends, and he gave moro 
than their share of commendation to the Wallaces, out of respect to his friend Mrs. Dunlop. Of 
the critics of Edinburgh he said, they spun the thread of their criticisms so fine that it was unfit 
for either warp or weft; and of its scholars, he said, they were never satisfied with any Scottish 
poft, anlefi they could trace him in Horace. One morning a1 Dr. Blair's breakfast-table, whe* 
the " Hoiy jTsixr" (?a3 the subject of conversation, the reverend critic said, *' Why should 



d LIFE OF ROBEKT BURNS. 

* Moody speel the holy door 

With tidings of salvation ?' 

\f you had said, with tidings of damnation, the satire would have been the better and the bitterer.** 
'* Excellent!" exclaimed the poet, "the alteration is capital, and I hope you will honour me by 
allowing me to say in a note at whose suggestion it was made." Professor Walker, who tells thf 
anecdote, adds that Blair evaded, with equal good humour and decision, this not very f olitfl 
request ; nor was this the only slip which the poet made on this occasion: some one asked Mm 
Ia which of the churches of Edinburgh he had received the highest gratification : he named tie 
H gh-church, but gave the preference over all preachers to Robert Walker, the colleague an 4 
rival in eloquence of Dr. Blair himself, and that in a tone so pointed and decisive as to make all 
at the table stare and look embarrassed. The poet confessed afterwards that he never reflected 
on hi? blunder without pain and mortification. Blair probably had this in his mind, when, on 
leading the poem beginning "When Guildford good our pilot stood," he exclaimed, "Ah! the 
politics ot Burns always smell of the smithy," meaning, that they were vulgar and common. 

In April, the second or Edinburgh, edition was published : it was widely purchased, and as 
warmly commended. The country had been prepared for it by the generous and discriminating 
criticisms of Henry Mackenzie, published in that popular periodical, " The Lounger," where he 
says, "Burns possesses the spirit as well as the fancy of a poet ; that honest pride and indepen- 
dence of soul, which are sometimes the muse's only dower, break forth on every occasion, in his 
works." The praise of the author of the " Man of Feeling" was not more felt by Burns, than it 
was by the whole island : the harp of the north had not been swept for centuries by a hand so 
forcible, and at the same time so varied, that it awakened every tone, whether of joy or woe: the 
language was that of rustic life ; the scenes of the poems were the dusty barn, the clay-floored 
reeky cottage, and the furrowed field ; and the characters were cowherds, ploughmen, and 
mechanics. The volume was embellished by a head of the poet from the hand of the now vene- 
rable Alexander Nasmith ; and introduced by a dedication to the noblemen and gentlemen of the 
Caledonian Hunt, in a style of vehement independence, unknown hitherto in the history of sub- 
Bcriptions. The whole work, verse, prose, and portrait, won public attention, and kept it : and 
(hough some critics signified their displeasure at expressions which bordered on profanity, and 
at a license of language which they pronounced impure, by far the greater number united their 
praise to the all but general voice ; nay, some scrupled not to call him, from his perfect ease and 
nature and variety, the Scottish Shakspeare. No one rejoiced more in his success and his fame, 
than the matron of Mossgiel. 

Other matters than his poems and socialities claimed the attention of Burns in Edinburgh. Ho 
had a hearty relish for the joyous genius of Allan Ramsay; he traced out his residences, and 
rejoiced to think that while he stood ip the shop of his own bookseller, Creech, the same floor 
had been trod by the feet of his great forerunner. He visited, too, the lowly grave of the unfor- 
tunate Robert Fergusson ; and it must be recorded to the shame of the magistrates of Edinburgh, 
that they allowed him to erect a headstone to his memory, and to the scandal of Scotland, that in 
such a memorial he had not been anticipated. He seems not to have regarded the graves of 
scholars or philosophers ; and he trod the pavements where the warlike princes and nobles had 
ivalked without any emotion. He loved, however, to see places celebrated in Scottish song, and 
fields where battles for the independence of his country had been stricken ; and, with money in 
hla pocket which his poems had produced, and with a letter from a witty but weak man, Lord 
Buchan, instructing him to pull birks on the Yarrow, broom on the Cowden-knowes, and not to 
neglect to admire the ruins of Drybrugh Abbey, Burns set out on a border tour, accompanied by 
Robert Ainslie, of Berrywell. As the poet had talked of returning to the plough. Dr. Blail 
imagined that he was on his way back to the furrowed field, and wrote him a handsome farewe 1, 
laying he was leaving Edinburgh with a character which had survived many temptations ; with a 
ftame which would be placed with the Ramsays and the Fergussons, and with the hopes of all, 
fthat, in a second volume, on which his fate as a poet would very much depend, he might rise yef 
h'gher in merit and in fame. Burns, who received this communication when laying his leg ovei 



BORDER TOUR. m 



Ibe saddle to be gone, is said to have muttered, "Ay, but a man's first book is sometimes life's 
Ills first babe, healthier and stronger than those which follow." 

On the 6th of May, 1787, Burns reached Berrywell : he recorded of the laird, that he was 
clear-headed, and of Miss Ainslie, that she was amiable and handsome — of Dudgeon, the author 
of " The Maid that tends the Goats," that he had penetration and modesty, and of the preacher, 
Bowmaker, that he was a man of strong lungs and vigorous remark. On crossing the Tweed at 
Coldstream he took off his hat, and kneeling down, repeated aloud the two last verses of the 
* Cotter'j Saturday Night :" on returning, he drank tea with Brydone, the traveller, a man, h© 
laid, kird and benevolent: he cursed one Cole as an English Hottentot, for having rooted out an 
fcndcut garden belonging to a Romish ruin ; and he wrote of Macdowal, of Caverton-mill, that 
by his skill in rearing sheep, he sold his flocks, ewe and lamb, for a couple of guineas each : that 
he washed his sheep before shearing — and by his turnips improved sheep-husbandry; he added^ 
that lands were generally let at sixteen shillings the Scottish acre; the farmers rich, and, com- 
pared to Ayrshire, their houses magnificent. On his way to Jedburgh he visited an old gentleman 
in whose house was an arm-chair, once the property of the author of " The Seasons ;" ha 
reverently examined the relic, and could scarcely be persuaded to sit in it : he was a warm 
admirer of Thomson. 

In Jedburgh, Burns found much to interest him : the ruins of a splendid cathedral, and of a 
strong castle — and, what was still more attractive, an amiable young lady, very handsome, with 
*' beautiful hazel eyes, full of spirit, sparkling with delicious moisture," and looks which betokened 
a high order of female mind. He gave her his portrait, and entered this remembrance of her 
attractions among his memoranda : — '* My heart is thawed into melting pleasure, after being so 
long frozen up in the Greenland bay of indifference, amid the noise and nonsense of Edinburgh. 
I am afraid my bosom has nearly as much tinder as ever. Jed, pure be thy streams, and 
hallowed thy sylvan banks : sweet Isabella Lindsay, may peace dwell in thy bosom uninterrupted, 
except by the tumultuous throbbings of rapturous love!" With the freedom of Jedburgh, hand- 
somely bestowed by the magistrates, in his pocket, Burns made his way to Wauchope, the resi 
dence of Mrs. Scott, who had welcomed him into the world as a poet in verses lively and graceful . 
he found her, he said, " a lady of sense and taste, and of a decision peculiar to female authors." 
After dining with Sir Alexander Don, who, he said, was a clever man, but far from a match for 
his divine lady, a sister of his patron Glencairn, he spent an hour among the beautiful ruins of 
Dryburgh Abbey ; glanced on the splendid remains of Melrose ; passed, unconscious of the future, 
over that ground on which have arisen the romantic towers of Abbotsford ; dined with certain of 
the Souters of Selkirk; and visited the old keep of Thomas the Rhymer, and a dozen of the hilla 
tnd streams celebrated in song. Nor did he fail to pay his respects, after returning through 
Dunse, to Sir James Hall, of Dunglass, and his lady, and was much pleased with the scenery of 
their romantic place. He was now joined by a gentleman of the name of Kerr, and crossing the 
Tveed a second time, penetrated into England, as far as the ancient town of Newcastle, wherg 
he srai'.?i at a facetious Northumbrian, who at dinner caused the beef to be eaten before the 
broti was served, in obedience to an ancient injunction, lest the hungry Scotch should come 
and snatch it. On his way back he saw, what proved to be prophetic of his own fortune — the 
roup of an unfortunate farmer's stock: he took out his journal, and wrote with a troubled brow, 
** B.g-d economy, and decent industry, do you preserve me from being the principal dramatis per- 
»ohce, in such a scene of horror." He extended his tour to Carlisle, and from thertce to the banks 
of Cie Nith, where he looked at the farm of Ellisland, with the intention of trying once more his 
fortune at the plough, should poetry and patronage fail him. 

On his way through the West, Burns spent a few days with his mother at Mossgiel : he had 
feft hor an unknown and an almost banished man : he returned in fame and in sunshine, admired 
by all who aspired to be thought tasteful or refined. He felt offended alike with the patriciaa 
Btateliness of Edinburgh and the plebeian servility of the husbandmen of Ayrshire ; and dreading 
the influence of the unlucky star which had hitherto ruled his lot, he bought a pocket Milton, ha 
laid, fur the purpose of studying the intrepid independence and daring magnanimity, and noble 
ietiance of hardships, exhibited by Satan ! In this mood he reached Edinburgh — OJiJy to leave I 



Kill LIFE OF EGBERT BUKNS. 

Bgain on three hurried excursions into the Highlands. The route \rhich he took and the senti- 
ments which the scenes awakened, are but faintly intimated in the memoranda which he made. 
His first journey seems to have been performed in ill-humour ; at Stii-ling, his Jacobitism, provoked 
at seeing the ruined palace of the Stuarts, broke out in some unloyal lines which he had tha 
indiscretion to write with a diamond on the window of a public inn. At Carron, where he waa 
refused a sight of the magnificent foundry, he avenged himself in epigram. At Inverary h«a 
resented some real or imaginary neglect on the part of his Grace of Argyll, by a stinging lampoon; 
Bor can he be said to have fairly regained his serenity of temper, till he danced his wrath away 
with some Highland ladies at Dumbarton. 

His second excursion was made in the company of Dr. Adair, of Harrowgate : the reluctant 
doors of Carron foundry were opened to him, and he expressed his wonder at the blazing furnacea 
and broiling labours of the place ; he removed the disloyal lines from the window of the inn at 
Stirling, and he paid a two days' visit to Ramsay of Ochtertyre, a distinguished scholar, and dis- 
cussed with him future topics for the muse. "I have been in the company of many men of 
genius," said Ramsay afterwards to Currie, ** some of them poets, but never witnessed such 
Idashes of intellectual brightness as from him — the impulse of the moment, sparks of celestial 
fire." From the Forth he went to the Devon, in the county of Clackmannan, where, for the first 
time, he saw the beautiful Charlotte Hamilton, the sister of his friend Gavin Hamilton, of Mauch- 
line. "She is not only beautiful," he thus writes to her brother, **but lovely: her form is 
elegant, her features not regular, but they have the smile of sweetness, and the settled compla- 
cency of good nature in the highest degree. Her eyes are fascinating ; at once expressive of good 
sense, tenderness and a noble mind. After the exercise of our riding to the Falls, Charlotte was 
exactly Dr. Donne's mistress: — 

"Her pure and eloquent blood 
Spoke in her cheeks, and fco distinctly wrought, 
That one would almost say her body thought." 

Accompanied by this charming dame, he visited an old lady, Mrs. Bruce, of Clackmannan, who, 
in the belief that she had the blood of the royal Bruce in her veins, received the poet with some- 
thing of princely state, and, half in jest, conferred the honour of knighthood upon him, with her 
ancestor's sword, saying, in true Jacobitical mood, that she had a better right to do that than 
some folk had ! In the same pleasing company he visited the famous cataract on the Devon, 
called the Cauldron Linn, and the Rumbling bridge, a single arch thrown, it is said by the devil, 
over the Devon, at the height of a hundred feet in the air. It was the complaint of his compa- 
nions that Burns exhibited no raptures, and poured out no unpremeditated verses at such magni- 
ficent scenes. But he did not like to be tutored or prompted: "Look, look!" exclaimed some 
one, as Carron foundry belched forth flames — " look, Burns, look ! good heavens, what a graad 
sight! — look!" "I would not look^ook, sir, at your bidding," said the bard, turning away, 
" were it into the mouth of hell !" When he visited, at a future time, the romantic Linn of Cree- 
kcpe, in Nithsdale, he looked silently at its wonders, and showed none of the hoped-for rapture. 
"You do not admire it, I fear," said a gentleman who accompanied him: "I could not admire it 
more, sir," replied Burns, " if He who made it were to desire me to do it." There are other reasons 
for the silence of Burns amid the scenes of the Devon: he was charmed into love by the sense 
and the beauty of Charlotte Hamilton, and rendered her homage in that sweet song, " The Banka 
Df th-e Devon," and in a dozen letters written with more than his usual care, elegance, and 
tenderness. But the lady was neither to be won by verse nor by prose : she afterwards gave 
her hand fco Adair, the poet's companion, and, what was less meritorious, threw his letters into 
the fire. 

The third and last tour into the North was in company of Nicol of the High-School of Edin- 
Durgli : on the fields of Bannockburn and Falkirk — places of triumph and of woe to Scotland, h« 
gave way to patriotic impulses, and in these words he recorded them : — " Stirling, August 2(5, 
17 S7 : this morning I knelt at the tomb of Sir John the Graham, the gallant friend of the immortal 
Wailaco ; and two hours ago I said a fervent prayer for old Caledonia, over the hole i.i a whin? 



HIGHLAND TOUR. xlul 



itone where Robert the Bruce fixed his royal standard on the banks of Bannockbum." He then 
proceeded northward by Ochtertyre, the water of Earn, the vale of Glen Almond, and the tradi 
tionary gra\3 of Ossian. He looked in at princely Taymouth; mused an hour or two among the 
Birks of Aberfeldy ; gazed from Birnam top ; paused amid the wild grandeur of the pass of 
Killiecrankie, at the stone which marks the spot where a sec.ond patriot Graham fell, and spent a 
day at Blair, where he experienced the graceful kindness - Ae Duke of Athol, and in a strain 
tviCy elegant, petitioned him, in the name of Bruar Water, to hide the utter nakedness of ita 
Ciherwise picturesque banks, with plantations of birch and oak. Quitting Blair he followei the 
C'.arae of the Spey, and passing, as he told his brother, through a wild country, among cliffs gra^ 
With eternal snows, and glens gloomy and savage, reached Findhorn in mist and darkness ; visited 
Castle Cawdor, where Macbeth murdered Duncan ; hastened through Inverness to Urquhari 
Castle, and the 7alls of Fyers, and turned southward to Kilravock, over the fatal moor of Cullo* 
Jen. He admired the ladies of that classic region for their suooded ringlets, simple elegance of 
dress, and expressive eyes : in Mrs. Rose, of Kilravock Castle, he found that matronly grace and 
dignity which he owned he loved ; and in the Duke and Duchess of Gordon a renewal of that more 
than kindness with which they had welcomed him in Edinburgh. But while he admired the 
palace of Fochabers, and was charmed by the condescensions of the noble proprietors, he forgot 
that he had left a companion at the inn, too proud and captious to be pleased at favours showered 
on others : he hastened back to the inn with an invitation and an apology : he found the fiery 
pedant in a foaming rage, striding up and down the street, cursing in Scotch and Latin the loitering 
postilions for not yoking the horses, and hurrying him away. All apology and explanation was 
in vain, and Burns, with a vexation which he sought not to conceal, took his seat silently beside 
the irascible pedagogue, and returned to the South by Broughty Castle, the banks of Endermay 
and Queensferry. He parted with the Highlands in a kindly mood, and loved to recal the stenea 
and the people, both in conversation and in song. 

On his nturn to Edinburgh he had to bide the time of his bookseller and the public: the 
Impression of his poems, extending to two thousand eight hundred copies, was sold widely : much 
of the money had to come from a distance, and Burns lingered about the northern metropolis, 
expecting a settlement with Creech, and with the hope that those who dispensed his country's 
patronage might remember one who then, as now, was reckoned an ornament to the land. But 
Creech, a parsimonious man, was slow in his payments ; the patronage of the country was swal- 
lowed up in the sink of politics, and though noblemen smiled, and ladies of rank nodded their 
jewelled heads in approbation of every new song he sung and every witty sally be uttered, they 
reckoned any further notice or care superfluous : the poet, an observant man, saw all this ; but hope 
was the cordial of his heart, he said, and he hoped and lingered on. Too active a genius to remain 
idle, he addressed himself to the twofold business of love and verse. Repulsed by the stately 
Beauty of the Devon, he sought consolation in the society of one, as fair, and infinitely more 
witty ; and as an accident had for a time deprived him of the use of one of his legs, he gave 
wings to hours of pain, by writing a series of letters to this Edinburgh enchantress, in which he 
signed himself Sylvander, and addressed her under the name of Clarinda. In these compositions, 
Whi b no one can regard as serious, and which James Grahame the poet called " a romance of 
rea "^latonic affection," amid much affectation both of language and sentiment, and a desire to say 
lue and startling things, we can see the proud heart of the poet throbbing in the dread of being 
leglected or forgotten by his country. The love which he offers up at the altar of wit and beaaty, 
jeeins assumed and put on, for its rapture is artificial, and its brilliancy that of an icicle : no 
woman was ever wooed and won in that Malvolio way; and there is no doubt that Mrs M'Lehcse 
felt as much offence as pleasure at this boisterous display of regard. In aftertimes he loved to 
remember her : — when wine circulated, Mrs, Mac was his favourite toast. 

During this season he began his lyric contributions to the Musical Museum of Johnson, a work 
which, amid many imperfections of taste and arrangement, contains more of the true old music 
»nd genuine old songs of Scotland, than any other collection with which I am acquainted. Burni 
leathered oral airs, and fitted them with words of mirth or of woe, of tenderness or of humour, 
rith unexample i readiness and felicity ; he eked o it old fragments and sobered down licontioiu 



tliv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Itrains so mucli in the olden spirit and feeling, that the new cannot be distinguished fro3 thi 
ancient ; nay, he inserted lines and half lines, with such skill and nicety, that antiquarian, are 
perplexed to settle which is genuine or which is simulated. Yet with all this he abated noi of 
the natural mirth or the racy humour of the lyric muse of Scotland : he did not like her the esa 
because she walked like some of the maidens of her strains, high-kilted at times, and spoke "v ith 
the freedom of innocence. In these communications we observe how little his border-jaunt among 
the fountains of ancient song contributed either of sentiment or allusion, to his lyrics ; and how 
deeply his strains, whether of pity or of merriment, were coloured by what he had seen, and 
heard, and felt in the Highlands. In truth, all that lay beyond the Forth was an undiscovered 
land to him ; while the lowland districts were not only familiar to his mind and eye, but all their 
more romantic vales and hills and streams were already musical in songs of such excellence aa 
induced him to dread failure rather than hope triumph. Moreover, the Highlands teemed with 
j&jobitical feelings, and scenes hallowed by the blood or the sufferings of men heroic, and perhaps 
misguided ; and the poet, willingly yielding to an impulse which was truly romantic, and believed 
by thousands to be loyal, penned his songs on Drumossie, a>nd Killiecrankie, as the spirit of sorrow 
or of bitterness prevailed. Though accompanied, during his northern excursions, by friends 
whose socialities and conversation forbade deep thought, or even serious remark, it will be seen 
bj those who read his lyrics with care, that his wreath is indebted for some of its fairest flowers 
to the Highlands. 

The second winter of the poet's abode in Edinburgh had now arrived: it opened, as might have 
been expected, with less rapturous welcomes and with more of frosty civility than the first. It 
must be confessed, that indulgence in prolonged socialities, and in company which, though clever, 
could not be called select, contributed to this ; nor must it be forgotten that his love for th€ 
sweeter part of creation was now and then carried beyond the limits of poetic respect, and the 
delicacies of courtesy ; tending to estrange the austere and to lessen the admiration at first 
common to all. Other causes may be assigned for this wane of popularity : he took no care to 
conc5al his contempt for all who depended on mere scholarship for eminence, and he had a perilous 
knack in sketching with a sarcastic hand the characters of the learned and the grave. Some 
indeed of the high literati of the north — Home, the author of Douglas, was one of them — spoke 
of the poet as a chance or an accident: and though they admitted that he was a poet, yet 
he was not one of settled grandeur of soul, brightened by study. Burns was probably aware 
of this ; he takes occasion in some of his letters to suggest, that the hour may be at hand 
when he shall be accounted by scholars as a meteor, rather than a fixed light, and to suspect 
that the praise bestowed on his genius was partly owing to the humility of his condition. From 
his lingering so long about Edinburgh, the nobility began to dread a second volume by sub- 
scription, the learned to regard him as a fierce Theban, who resolved to carry all the out- 
works to the temple of Fame without the labour of making regular approaches ; while a third 
party, and not the least numerous, looked on him with distrust, as one who hovered between 
Jacobite and Jacobin ; who disliked the loyal-minded, and loved to lampoon the reigning tamily. 
Besides, the marvel of- the inspired ploughman had begun to subside; the bright gloss of 
aovelty was worn off, and his fault lay in his unwillingness to see that he had made all ih* 
eport which the Philistines expected, and was required to make room for some " salvage" of 
the seJison, to paw, and roar, and shake the mane. The doors of the titled, which at first opened 
Bpoiitanecus, like those in Milton's heaven, were now unclosed for him with a tardy courtesy : he 
^ag received with measured stateliness, and seldom requested to repeat his visit. Of this 
chai ged aspect of things he complained to a friend: but his real sorrows were mixed with those 
of the fancy : — he told Mrs. Dunlop with what pangs of heart he was compelled to take shelter in 
ft corner, lest the rattling equipage of some gaping blockhead should mangle him in the mire. 
In this land of titles and wealth such querulous sensibilities must have been frequently offended. 

Burns, who had talked lightly hitherto of resuming the plough, began now to think seriously 

%bout it, for he saw it must come to that at last. Miller, of Dalswinton, a gentleman of scientific 

cquirements, and who has the merit of applying the impulse of steam to navigation, had offered 

I poet the choice of his farms, on a fair estate which he had purchased on the Nith :^ aided bj 



HIS MARRIAGE. xif 



% westland farmer, he selected Ellisland, a beautiful spot, fit alike for the steps of ploughman or 
poet. On intimating this to the oagnates of Eiin>>urgh, no one lamented that a genius so bright 
and original should be driven to win his bread with the sweat of his brow: no one, with an 
indignant eye, ventured to tell those to whom the patronage of this magnificent empire was con- 
fided, that they were misusing the sacred trust, and that posterity would curse them for their 
coldness or neglect : neither did any of the rich nobles, whose tables he had adorned by his wit, 
offer to enable him to toil free of rent, in a land of which he was to be a permanent ornament:— 
%\l were silent — all were cold — the Earl of Glencairn alone, aided by Alexander Wood, a gentle* 
K&n who merits praise oftener than he is named, did the little that was done or attempted tc b« 
done for him: nor was that little done on the peer's part without solicitation: — "I wish to go 
into the excise ;" thus he wrote to Glencairn ; ** and I am told your lordship's interest will easily 
procure me the grant from the commissioners : and your lordship's patronage and goodness, 
which have already rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, emboldens me to ask 
that interest. You have likewise put it in my power to save the little tie of home that sheltered 
an aged mother, two brothers, and three sisters from destruction. I am ill qualified to dog the 
heels of greatness with the impertinence of solicitation, and tremble nearly as much at the thought 
of the cold promise as the cold denial." The farm and the excise exhibit the poet's humble 
scheme of life : the money of the one, he thought, would support the toil of the other, and in the 
fortunate management of both, he looked for the rough abundance, if not the elegancies suitable 
to a poet's condition. 

While Scotland was disgraced by sordidly allowing her brightest genius to descend to the 
plough and the excise, the poet hastened his departure from a city which had witnessed both hia 
triumph and his shame : he bade farewell in a few well-chosen words to such of the classic literati 
— the Blairs, the Stewarts, the Mackenzies, and the Tytlers — as had welcomed the rustic bard 
ftnd continued to countenance him ; while in softer accents he bade adieu to the Clarindas and 
Chlorises of whose charms he had sung, and, having wrung a settlement from Creech, he turned 
his steps towards Mossgiel and Mauchline. He had several reasons, and all serious ones, for 
taking Ayrshire in his way to the Nith : he desired to see his mother, his brothers and sisters, 
who had partaken of his success, and were now raised from pining penury to comparative afiiuence: 
he desired to see those who had aided him in his early struggles into the upper air — perhaps 
those, too, who had looked coldly on, and smiled at his outward aspirations after fame or distinc- 
tion ; but more than all, he desired to see one whom he once and still dearly loved, who had been 
a sufferer for his sake, and whom he proposed to make mistress of his fireside and the sharer of 
his fortunes. Even while whispering of love to Charlotte Hamilton, on the banks of the Devon, 
or sighing out the affected sentimentalities of platonic or pastoral love in the ear of Clarinda, his 
thoughts wandered to her whom he had left bleaching her webs among the daisies on Mauchline 
braes — she had still his heart, and in spite of her own and her father's disclamation, she was hiS 
wife. It was one of the delusions of this great po€t, as well as of those good people, the Armours, 
that the marriage had been dissolved by the destruction of the marriage-lines, and that Robert 
Burrs and Jean Armour were as single as though they had neither vowed nor written themselves 
man ind wife. Be that as it may, the time was come when all scruples and obstacles were to b€ 
removed which stood in the way of their union : their hands were united by Gavin Hamiltoa, 
according to law, in April, 1788; and even the Reverend Mr. Auld, so mercilessly lampoousd, 
iniled forgivingly as the poet satisfied a church wisely scrupulous regarding the sacred cerematiy 
of marriage. 

Though Jean Armour was but a country lass of humble degree, she had sense and tiitor'^eaC'fS, 
»nd personal charms sufficient not only to win and fix the affections of the poet, but to sa iction 
the praise which he showered on her in song. In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, he thus describes her : 
' The most placid good nature and sweetness of disposition, a warm heart, gratefully devoted 
^ith ail its powers to love me ; vigorous health and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best 
advantage by a more than commonly handsome figure : these I think in a woman may make a 
K3od wife, though she should never have read a page but the Scriptures, nor have danced in ft 



tM LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

' _— -^ — _ — _ , - ^ 

brighter assembly than a penny-pay wedding." To the accomplished Margaret Chalmers, oi 
Edinburgh, he adds, to complete the picture, "I have got the handsomest figure, the sweetesi 
temper, the soundest constitution, and kindest heart in the country : a certain late publication 
of Scots' poems she has perused very devoutly, and all the ballads in the land, as she has the 
finest woodnote wild you ever heard." With his young wife, a punch bowl of Scottish marble, and 
an eight-day clock, both presents from Mr. Armour, now reconciled to his eminent son-ia-Iavv, 
with a new plough, and a beautiful heifer, given by Mrs. Dunlop, with about four hundrnd pounds 
?n his pocket, a resolution to toil, and a hope of success. Burns made his appearance on the banki 
5)f the Nith, and set up his staff at Ellisland. This farm, now a classic spot, is about six miial 
op the river from Dumfries ; it extends to upwards of a hundred acres : the soil is kindly ; the 
holmland portion of it loamy and rich, and it has at command fine walks on the river side, and 
views of the Friar's Carse, Cowehill, and Dalswinton. For a while the poet had to hide his he<id 
in a smoky hovel ; till a house to his fancy, and offices for his cattle and his crops were built, his 
accommodation was sufficiently humble ; and his mind taking its hue from his situation, infused 
a bitterness into the letters in which he first made known to his western friends that he had fixed 
his abode in Nithsdale. " I am here," said he, " at the very elbow of existence : the only things 
to be found in perfection in this country are stupidity and canting ; prose they only know in graces 
and prayers, and the value of these they estimate as they do their plaiden-webs, by the ell : as 
for the muses, they have as much an idea of a rhinoceros as of a poet." "This is an undiscovered 
clime," he at another period exclaims, "it is unknown to poetry, and prose never looked on it 
save in drink. I sit by the fire, and listen to the hum of the spinning-wheel : I hear, but cannot 
6ee it, for it is hidden in the smoke which eddies round and round me before it seeks to escape by 
windov and door. I have no converse but with the ignorance which encloses me : no kenned face 
but that of my old mare, Jenny Geddes — my life is dwindled down to mere existence." 

When the poet's new house was built and plenished, and the atmosphere of his mind began to 
clear, he found the land to be fruitful, and its people intelligent and wise. In Riddel, of Friar's 
Carse, he found a scholar and antiquarian ; in Miller, of Dalswinton, a man conversant with 
science as well as with the world; in M'Murdo, of Drumlanrig, a generous and accomplished 
gentleman ; and in John Syme, of Ryedale, a man much after his own heart, and a lover of the 
wit and socialities of polished life. Of these gentlemen Riddel, who was his neighbour, was the 
favourite : a door was made in the march-fence which separated Ellisland from Friar's Carse, 
that the poet might indulge in the retirement of the Carse hermitage, a little lodge in the wood, 
as romantic as it was beautiful, while a pathway was cut through the dwarf oaks and birches 
which fringed the river bank, to enable the poet to saunter and muse without let or interruption. 
T^fs attention was rewarded by an inscription for the hermitage, written with elegance as well as 
feeling, and which was the first fruits of his fancy in this unpoetic land. In a happier strain he 
remembered Matthew Henderson : this is one of the sweetest as well as happiest of his poetic 
compositions. He heard of his friend's death, and called on nature animate and inanimate, 
to lament the loss of one who held the patent of his honours from God alone, and who loved all 
that was pure and lovely and good. " The Whistle" is another of his Ellisland compositions : the 
contest which he has recorded with such spirit and humour took place almost at his door: the 
heroes were Fergusson, of Craigdarroch, Sir Robert Laurie, of Maxwelltown, and Riddel, of 
the Friar's Carse : the poet was present, and drank bottle and bottle about with the best, and 
when all was done he seemed much disposed, as an old servant at Friar's Carse remembered, to 
take up the victor. 

Burns had become fully reconciled to Nithsdale, and was on the most intimate terms with the 
muse when he produced Tam O'Shanter, the crowning glory of all his poems. For this marvellous 
tale we are indebted to something like accident: Francis Grose, the antiquary, happened to visit 
Friar's Carse, and as he 'loved wine and wit, the total want of imagination was nr hinderance to 
his friendly intercourse with the poet : " Alloway's auld haunted kirk" was mentioned, and Grose 
laid he would include it in his illustrations of the antiquities of Scotland, if the bard of the 
Doon would write a poem to accompany it. Burns consented, and before he left the table, the 
rarious traditions whi h belonged to the ruin were passing through his mind. One of these was 



ELLISLAND— TAM O'SIIANTER. xItx 

»f A *urmer, who, on a night wild with wind and rain, on passing the old kirk was stat-^led ly « 
light fflimmering inside the walls : on drawing near he saw a caldron hung over a f^ns, in which 
the heads and limbs of children were simmering : there was neither witch nor fiend to guard it, 
BO he unhooked the caldron, turned out the contents, and carried it home as a tiophy. A second 
tradition was of a man of Kyle, who, having been on a market night detained late ^r\ Ayr, os 
, irossiug the old bridge of Doon, on his way home, saw a light streaming through the gfthic win 
Idw :i' Alloway kirk, and on riding near, beheld a batch of the district witches dancinj,; nverr:Ii> 
rouni ';heir master, the devil, who kept them "louping and flinging" to the sound of a bagpipe 
He knew several of the old crones, and smiled at their gambols, for they were dancing in thoh 
emccks : but one of them, and she happened to be young and rosy, had on a smock shorter than 
t.hf»se of her companions by two spans at least, which so moved the farmer that he excliiraed, 
«' Weel luppan, Maggie wi' the short sark !" Satan stopped his music, the light was extingu'&hed, 
and out rushed the hags after the farmer, who made at the gallop for the bridge of Doon, knoMing 
that they could not cross a stream : he escaped; but Maggie, wh) was foremost, seized his hui^iio's 
tail at the mitidle of the bridge, and pulled it off in her efforts to stay him. 

This poem was the work of a single day: Burns walked out to his favourite musing path, 
which runs towards the old tower of the Isle, along Nithside, and was observed to walk hastily 
and mutter as he went. His wife knew by these signs that he was engaged in composition, and 
watched him from the window; at last wearying, and moreover wondering at the unusual length 
cf his meditations, she took her children with her and went to meet him; but as he seemed not 
•■o see her, she stept aside among the broom to allow him to pass, which he did with a flushed 
brow and dropping eyes, reciting these lines aloud : — 

" Now Tam ! O, Tarn ! had thae been queans, 
A' plump and strapping in their teens, 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 

Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen ! • 

Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, 
1 wad hae gien them aff my hurdles, 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies !" 

He embellished this wild tradition from fact as well as from fancy: along the road which Tam 
e&me on that eventful night his memory supplied circumstances which prepared him for the 
gtrange sight at the kirk of Alloway. A poor chapman had perished, some winters before, in the 
snow ; a murdered child had been found by some early hunters ; a tippling farmer had fallen 
from his horse at the expense of his neck, beside a "meikle stane;" and a melancholy old woman 
had hanged herself at the bush abooii the well, as the poem relates : all these matters the poet 
pressed into the service of the muse, and used them with a skill which adorns rather thar. 
oppresses the legend. A pert lawyer from Dumfries objected to the language as obscure: 
"Obscure, sir!" said Burns ; "you^know not the language of that great master of your own art 
— the devil. If you had a witch for your client you would not be able to manage her defence !" 

He wrote few poems after his marriage, but he composed many songs : the sweet voice of Mrs, 
Burnr tr.d the craving of Johnson's Museum will in some measure account for the number, but 
not for thBiT variety, which is truly wonderful. In the history of that mournful strain. " Mary 
Ir. Iliaven," we read the story of many of his lyrics, for they generally sprang from nis personal 
feelings : no poet has put more of himself into his poetry than Burns. "Robert, though ill of a 
cold," said his wife, "had been busy all day — a day of September, 1789, with the shearprs in 
the field, and as he had got most of the corn into the stack-yard, was in good spirits ; but wherj 
iwilight came he grew sad about something, and could not rest : he wandered first up the water- 
Bide, and then went into the stack-yard : I followed, and begged him to come into the house, as 
he was ill, and the air was sharp and cold. He said, 'Ay, ay,' but did not come: he th» 
himself 'own on some loose sheaves, and lay looking at the. sky, and particularly at a ' 
Dright Btar, which shone like another moon. At last, but that was long after I had left 
tun« home-' the song was already composed," To the memory of Mary Campbell ht 



riviu LIFE OF KOBERT BURNS 

■ ■« 

tiat touching ode ; and he thus intimates the continuance of his early affection for "The fair- 
haired lass of the west," in a letter of that time to Mrs. Dunlop. " If there is another life, il 
must be only for the just, the benevolent, the amiable, and the humane. What a flattering idea, 
then, is a world to come ! There shall I, with speechless agony of rapture, again recognise my 
lost, my ever dear Mary, whose bosom was fraught with truth, honour, constancy, and love." 
These melancnoly words gave way in their turn to others of a nature lively and humorous : " Tarn 
Glen," in which the thoughts flow as freely as the waters of the Nith, on whose banks he wrote 
•t; "Findlay," with its quiet vein of sly simplicity; <* Willie brewed a peck o' maut," the first 
# social, and " She's fair and fause," the first of sarcastic songs, with "The deil's awa wi' the 
Esciseman," are all productions of this period— a period which had besides its own fears and its 
own forebodings. 

For a while Burns seemed to prosper in his farm: he held the plough with his own hand, he 
guided the harrows, he distributed the seed-corn equally among the furrows, and he reaped the 
crop in its season, and saw it safely covered in from the storms of winter with "thack and rape ;" 
his wife, too, superintended the dairy with a skill which she had brought from Kyle, and as the 
harvest, for a season or two, was abundant, and the dairy yielded butter and cheese for the 
market, it seemed that "the luckless star" which ruled his lot had relented, and now shcnc 
unboding and benignly. But much more is required than toil of hand to make a successful 
farmer, nor will the attention bestowed only by fits and starts, compensate for carelessness or 
oversight : frugality, not in one thing but in all, is demanded, in small matters as well as in great, 
while a careful mind and a vigilant eye must superintend the labours of servants, and the whole 
By^em of in-door and out-door economy. Now, during the three years which Burns stayed in 
Ellisland, he neither wrought with that constant diligence which farming demands, nor did he 
bestow upon it the unremitting attention of eye and mind which such a farm required : besides 
his skill in husbandry was but moderate — the rent, though of his own fixing, was too high for 
him and for the times ; the ground, though good, was not so excellent as he might have had on 
the same estate — he employed more servants than the number of acres demanded, and spread for 
them a richer board than common : when we have said this we need not add the expensive tastes 
induced by poetry, to keep readers from starting, when they are told that Burns, at the close of 
the third year of occupation, resigned his lease to the landlord, and bade farewell for ever to the 
plough. He was not, however, quite desolate; he had for a year or more been appointed on the 
excise, and had superintended a district extending to ten large parishes, with applause ; indeed, 
it has been assigned as the chief reason for failure in his farm, that when the plough or the sickle 
summoned him to the field, he was to be found, either pursuing the defaulters of the revenue, 
among the valleys of Dumfrieshire, or measuring out pastoral verse to the beauties of the land. 
He retired to a house in the Bank-vennel of Dumfries, and commenced a town-life : he commenoed 
it with an empty pocket, for Ellisland had swallowed up all the profits of his poems : he had now 
neither a barn to produce meal nor barley, a barn-yard to yield a fat hen, a field to which h« 
30uld go at Martinmas for a mart, nor a dairy to supply milk and cheese and butter to the table 
—he had, in snort, all to buy and little to buy with. He regarded it as a compensation that hp 
had no farm-rent to provide, no bankruptcies to dread, no horse to keep, for his excise duties were 
now confined to Dumfries, and that the burthen of a barren farm was removed from his mind, and 
his muse at liberty to renew her unsolicited strains. 

But from the day of his departure from " the barren" Ellisland, the downward course of Burni 
may be dated. The cold neglect of his country had driven him back indignantly to the plough, 
end he hoped to gain from the furrowed field that independence which it was the duty of Scotland 
to have provided: but he did not resume the plough with all the advantages he possessed when 
he first forsook it: he had revelled in the luxuries of polished life — his tastes had been rendered 
expensive as well as pure : he had witnessed, and he hoped for the pleasures of literary retire- 
ment, while the hands which had led jewelled dames over scented carpets to supper tables loaded 
wi th silver took hold of the hilts of the plough with more of reluctance than goodwill. Edinburgh, 
irith its lords and its ladies, its delights and its hopes, spoiled him for farming. Nor were hia 
\ew labour's more acceptable to his haughty spirit than those of the plough : the excise for • 



niS DUTIES AS EXCISEMAN. xlix 

tentury had been a word of opprobrium or of hatred in the north : the duties which it imposed 
were regarded, not by peasants alone, as a serious encroachment upon the ancie**' eights of the 
nation, and to mislead a gauger, or resist him, even to blood, was considere'^ j few as a fauH. 
That the brightest genius of the nation — one whose tastes and sensibilitie'' ere so peculiarly its 
own — should be, as a reward, set to look after run-rum and smuggle u tobacco, and to gauge 
ale-wife's barrels, was a regret and a marvel to many, and a source of bitter merriment to Burns 
himself. 

The duties of his situation were however performed punctually, if not with pleasure : he was a 
▼igilant officer; he was also a merciful and considerate one: though loving a joke, and not at all 
averse to a dram, he walked among suspicious brewers, captious ale-wives, and frowning shop- 
keepers as uprightly as courteously : he smoothed the ruggedest natures into acquiescence by hia 
gayety and humour, and yet never gave cause for a malicious remark, by allowing his vigilance 
CO slumber. He was brave, too, and in the capture of an armed smuggler, in which he led the 
attack, showed that he neither feared water nor fire : he loved, also, to counsel the more forward 
of the smugglers to abandon their dangerous calling; his sympathy for the'helpless poor induced 
him to give them now and then notice of his approach ; he has been known to interpret the severe 
laws of the excise into tenderness and mercy in behalf of the widow and the fatherless. In all 
this hf iid but his duty to his country and his kind : and his conduct was so regarded by a very 
competent and candid judge, " Let me look at the books of Burns," said Maxwell, of Terraughty, 
at the meeting of the district magistrates, " for they show that an upright officer may be a 
merciful one." With a salary of some seventy pounds a year, the chance of a few guineas annually 
from the future editions of his poems, and the hope of rising at some distant day to the more 
lucrative situation of supervisor. Burns continued to live in Dumfries ; first ii the Bank-vennel, 
and next in a small house in a humble street, since called by his name. 

In his earlier years the poet seems to have scattered songs as thick as a summer eve scatters 
its dews ; nor did he scatter them less carelessly . he appears, indeed, to have thought much less 
of them than of his poems : the sweet song of Mary Morison, and others not at all inferior, lay 
unregarded among his papers till accident called them out to shine and be admired. Many of 
these brief but happy compositions, sometimes with his name, and oftener without, he threw in 
dozens at a time into Johnson, where they were noticed only by the captious Eitson : but now a 
work of higher pretence claimed a share in his skill; in September, 1792, he was requested by 
George Thomson to render, for his national collection, the poetry worthy of the muses of the 
north, and to take compassion on many choice airs, which had waited for a poet like the author of 
the Cotter's Saturday Night, to wed them to immortal verse. To engage in such an undertaking, 
Burns required small persuasion, and while Thomson asked for strains delicate and polished, the 
poet characteristically stipulated that his contributions were to be without remuneration, and the 
language seasoned with a sprinkling of the Scottish dialect. As his heart was much in the matter, 
lie began to pour out verse with a readiness and talent unknown in the history of song : his 
engagement with Thomson, and his esteem for Johnson, gave birth to a series of songs as brilliant 
as varied, and as naturally easy as they were gracefully original. In looking over those very 
dissimilar collections it is not difficult to discover that the songs which he wrote for the more 
stately work, while they are more polished and elegant than those which he contributed to the 
less pretending one, are at the same time less happy in their humour and less simple in thoif 
pathos. "What pleases me as simple and naive," says Burns to Thomson, "disgusts you aa 
ludicrous and low. For this reason ' Fye, gie me my coggie, sirs,' 'Fye, let us a' to the bridal,' 
with several otters of that cast, are to me highly pleasing, while ' Saw ye my Father' delights me 
with its descriptive simple pathos :" we read in these words the reasons of the difference between 
the lyrics of the two collections. 

The land where the poet lived furnished ready materials for song : hills with fine woods, vales 
with clear waters, and dames as lovely as any recorded in verse, were to be had in his walks 
and hia visits ; while, for the purposes of mirth or of humour, characters, in whose faces originality 
was legibly written, were as numerous in Nithsdale as he had found them in the west. He bad 
l»5n reproashed, while in Kyle, with seeing charms in very ordinary looks, and hangiu^ tb« 
4 



LIFE OF ROBEIIT BUE,XS. 



garlands of tlie muse on unlovely altars ; lie was liable to no such censure in Nithsdale ; ha 
poured out the incense of poetry only on the fair and captivating: his Jeans, his Lucys, hil 
Phillises, and his Jessies -were ladies of such mental or personal charms as the Reynolda'l 
and the Lavrrences of the time would have rejoiced to lay out their choicest colours on. But 
he did not limit himself to the charms of those whom he could step out to the walks anu 
admire : his lyrics give evidence of the wandering of his thoughts to the distant or the dead — h« 
loves to remember Charlotte Hamilton and Mary Campbell, and think of the sighs and vows oe 
the Devon and the Doon, while his harpstrings were still quivering to the names of the Millers ani 
the M'Murdos — to the charms of the lasses with golden or with flaxen locks, in the valley whore 
he dwelt. Of Jean M'Murdo and her sister Phillis he loved to sing; and their beauty merited 
ins strains : to one who died in her bloom, Lucy Johnston, he addressed a song of great sweet- 
ness ; to Jessie Lewars, two or three songs of gratitude and praise : nor did he forget otbei 
beauties, for the accomplished Mrs. Riddel is remembered, and the absence of fair Clarinda ia 
lamented in strains both impassioned and pathetic. 

But the main inspirer of the latter songs of Burns was a young woman of humble birth : of a 
form equal to the most exquisite proportions of sculpture, with bloom on her cheeks, and merri- 
ment in her large bright eyes, enough to drive an amatory poet crazy. Her name was Jean 
Lorimer; she was not more than seventeen when the poet made her acquaintance, and though 
she had got a sort of brevet-right from an officer of the army, to use his southron name of Whelp 
dale, she loved best to be addressed by her maiden designation, while the poet chose to veil her 
in the numerous lyrics, to which she gave life, under the names of "Chloris," "The lass of 
Craigie-burnwood," and " The lassie wi' the lintwhite locks." Though of a temper not much 
inclined to conceal anything, Burns complied so tastefully with the growing demand of the age 
for the exterior decencies of life, that when the scrupling dames of Caledonia sung a new song 
in her praise, they were as unconscious wh* ace its beauties 'came, as is the lover of art, that the 
shape and the gracefulness of the marble n; mph which he admires, are derived from a creature 
who sells the use of her charms indifferentlj ^o sculpture or to love. Fine poetry, like other arts 
called fine, springs from " strange places," *« the flower in the fable said, when it bloomed on 
the dunghill; nor is Burns more to be blamt4 than was Raphael, who painted Madonnas, and 
Magdalens with dishevelled hair and lifted e.^es, from a loose lady, whom the pope, "Holy at 
Rome — here Antichrist," charitably prescribed to the artist, while he laboured in the cause of 
the church. Of the poetic use which he made o^ Jean Lorimer's charms, Burns gives this account 
to Thomson. " The lady on whom the song of iVaigie-burnwood was made is one of the finest 
women in Scotland, and in fact is to me in a manaer what Sterne's Eliza was to him — a mistress, 
or friend, or what you will, in the guileless simplicity of platonic love. I assure you that to my 
lovely friend you are indebted for many of my best songs. Do you think that the sober gin-horse 
routine of existence could inspire a man with life and love and joy — could fire him with enthusiasm 
or melt hi u with pathos, equal to the genius of your book ? No ! no ! Whenever I want to be 
m 5re than ordinary in song — to be in some degree equal to your diviner airs^do you imagine I 
fast and pray for the celestial emanation? Quite the contrary. I have a glorious recipe; the 
pery one that for his own use was invented by the divinity of healing and poesy, when erbi h< 
[,iped to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a regimen of admiring a fine woman; and in 
proportion to the adorability of her charms, in proportion are you delighted with my verses, 
1 be .ightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the witchery of her smile, the difinit^ 
A Helicon." 

Most of the songs which he composed under the influences to which I have alluded are of the 
first order: "Bonnie Lesley," "Highland Mary," "Auld Rob Morris," "Duncan Gray," "Wan 
dering Willie," "Meg o' the Mill," "The poor and honest sodger," "Bonnie Jean." "Phillis ths 
fair," "John Anderson my .Jo," " Had I a cave on some wild distant shore," " Whistle and Pll coma 
to you, my lad," " Bruce's Address to his men at Bannockburn," "Auld Lang Sytie," " Thine am 
I, my faithful fair," " Wilt thou be my dearie," " Chloris, mark how green the groves," " Con 
lented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair," "Their groves of sweet myrtle," " Last May a braw wooei 
esme d<wnthe lang glen, "0 Mally's meek, Mally's sweet," " Hey for r lass wi' a tocher,* 



THE HERON BALLADS. 



"Cere's a health to ane I loe dear," and the "Fairest maid on Devon banks." Many of thf 
Latter lyrics of Burns were more or less altered, to put them into better harmony with the airs, 
ftiid I am not the only one who has wondered that a bard so impetuous and intractable in most 
matters, should have become so soft and pliable, as to make changes which too often sacrificed 
the poetry for the sake of a fuller and more swelling sound. It is true that the emphatic notes 
of the music must find their echo in the emphatic words of the verse, and that words soft and 
liquid are fitter for ladies' lips, than words hissing and rough; but it is also true that in changing 
a harsher word for one more harmonious the sense often suflFers, and that happiness of expression^ 
aad that dance of words which lyric verse requires, lose much of their life and vigour. The 
fOvJt's favourite walk in composing his songs was on a beautiful green sward on the northern sid« 
of the Nith, opposite Lincluden ; and his favourite posture for composition at home was balancing 
himself on the hind legs of his arm-chair. 

While indulging in these lyrical flights, politics penetrated into Nithsdale, and disturbed th« 
tranquillity of that secluded region. First, there came a contest for the representation of the 
Dumfries district of boroughs, between Patrick Miller, younger, of Dalswinton, and Sir Jamea 
Johnstone, of Westerhall, and some two years afterwards, a struggle for the representation of the 
county of Kirkcudbright, between the interest of the Stewarts, of Galloway, and Patrick Heron, 
of Kerroughtree. In the first of these the poet mingled discretion with his mirth, and raised a 
hearty laugh, in which both parties joined; for this sobriety of temper, good reasons maybe 
assigned : Miller, the elder, of Dalswinton, had desired to oblige him in the afi'air of Ellisland, 
and his firm and considerate friend, M'Murdo, of Drumlanrig, was chamberlain to his Grace of 
Queensbury, on whose interest Miller stood. On the other hand, his old Jacobitical aflFectionS 
made him the secret well-wisher to Westerhall, for up to this time, at least till acid disappoint- 
ment and the democratic doctrine of the natural equality of man influenced him. Burns, or as a 
western rhymer of his day and district worded the reproach — Rob was a Tory. His situation, it 
tvill therefore be observed, disposed him to moderation, and accounts for the milkiness of hia 
Epistle to Fintray, in which he marshals the chiefs of the contending factions, and foretells the 
fierceness of the strife, without pretending to foresee the event. Neither is he more explicit, 
though infinitely more humorous, in his ballad of " The Five Carlins," in which he impersonates 
the five boroughs — Dumfries, Kirkcudbright, Lochmaben, Sanquhar, and Annan, and draws 
their characters as shrewd and calculating dames, met in much wrath and drink to choose a 
representative. 

But the two or three years which elapsed between the election for the boroughs, and that for 
the county adjoining, wrought a serious change in the temper as well as the opinions of the poet. 
His Jacobitism, as has been said, was of a poetic kind, and put on but in obedience to old feelings, 
and made no part of the man : he was in his heart as democratic as the kirk of Scotland, which 
educated him — he acknowledged no other superiority but the mental : " he was disposed, too," 
Baid Professor Walker, "from constitutional temper, from education and the accidents of life, to 
a jealousy of power, and a keen hostility against every system which enabled birth and opulence 
to anticipate those rewards which he conceived to belong to genius and virtue." When we add 
to this, a resentment of the injurious treatment of the dispensers of public patronage, who had 
neglected his claims, and showered pensions and places on men unworthy of being named witfc 
him, we have assigned causes for the change of side and the tone of asperity and bitterness 
iBfrj^ed into " The Heron Ballads." Formerly honey was mixed with his gall : a little praise 
lireetened his censure : in these election lampoons he is fierce and even venomous : — no man haa 
a head but what is empty, nor a heart that is not black: men descended without reproach from 
lines cf heroes are stigmatized as cowards, and the honest and conscientious are reproached aa 
miserly, mean, and dishonourable. Such is the spirit of party. " I have privately," thus writes 
the poet to Heron, " printed a good many copies of the ballads, and have sent them among friends 
about the country. You have already, as your auxiliary, the sober detestation of mankind on 
the heads of your opponents ; and I swear by the lyre of Thalia, to muster on your side all the 
votaries of honest laughter and fair, candid ridi ;ule." The ridicule was uncandid, and the 
^ughter dishonest. The poet was unfortunate in his political attachments : Miller i^ained thi 



lii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 

boroughs Yfhich Burns wished he might lose, and Heron lost the county which he foretold he "would 
gain. It must also be recorded against the good taste of the poet, that he loved to recite "The 
Heron Ballads," and reckon them among his happiest compositions. 

From attacking others, the poet was — in the interval between penning these election laiopoons 
— called on to defend himself: for this he seems to have been quite unprepared, though in those 
yeasty times he might have expected it. " I have been surprised, confounded, and distracted,' 
he thus writes to Graham, of Fintray, "by Mr. Mitchell, the collector, telling me that he haa ' 
recoi7ed an order from your board to inquire into my political conduct, and blaming me as a per- 
lon disaffected to government. Sir, you are a husband and a father : you know what you would 
f?el, to SQii the much-loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless prattling little ones, turned 
adrift into the world, degraded and disgraced, from a situation in which tliey had been respectable 
and respected. I would not tell a deliberate falsehood, no, not though even worse horrors, if 
Vor&e can ..ie than those I have mentioned, hung over my head, and I say that the allegation, 
whatever villain has made it, is a lie! To the British constitution, on Revolution principles, next 
after my God, I am devotedly attached. To your patronage as a man of some genius, you have 
allowed me a claim ; and your esteem as an honest man I know is my due. To these, sir, permit 
me to appeal: by these I adjure you to save me from that misery which threatens to overwhelm 
me, and which with my latest breath I will say I have not deserved." In this lettrr, another, 
intended for the eye of the Commissioners of the Board of Excise, was enclosed, in which be dis- 
claimed entertaining the idea of a British republic — a wild dream of the day — but stojod by the 
principles of .the constitution of 1688, with the wish to see such corruptions as had crept in, 
amended. This last remark, it appears, by a letter from the poet to Captain Erskine, afterward* 
Eai'l of Mar, gave great ofiFence, for Corbet, one of the superiors, was desired to inform him, *'tha^ 
nis business was to act, and not to think; and that whatever might be men or measures, it was 
his duty to be silent and obedient." The intercession of Fintray, and the explanations of Barns, 
were so far effectual, that his political offence was forgiven, "only I understand," said he, "that 
all hopes of my getting officially forward are blasted." The records of the Excise Ofl&ce exhibit 
no trace of this memorable matter, and two noblemen, who were then in the government, have 
assured me that this harsh proceeding received no countenance at head-quarters, and must have 
originated with some ungenerous or malicious person, on whom the poet had spilt a little of the 
nitric acid of his wrath. 

That Burns was numbered among the republicans of Dumfries I well remember : but then 
those who held different sentiments from the men in power, were all, in that loyal town, stigma 
tized as democrats : that he either desired to see the constitution changed, or his country invaded 
by the liberal French, who proposed to set us free with the bayonet, and then admit us to the 
''fraternal embrace," no one ever believed. It is true that he spoke of premiers and peers with 
contempt; that he hesitated to take off his hat in the theatre, to the air of " God save the king;" 
that he refused to drink the health of Pitt, saying he preferred that of Washington — a far greater 
man ; that he wrote bitter words against that combination of princes, who desired to put down 
freedom in France ; that he said the titled spurred and the wealthy switched England and Scot- 
land like two hack-horses ; and that all the high places of the land, instead of being filled by 
genius and talent, were occupied, as were the high-places of Israel, with idols of wood or of 
■tone. But all this and more had been done and said before by thousands in this land, whose, 
love of their country was never questioned. That it was bad taste to refuse to remove his hxt 
when other heads were bared, and little better to refuse to pledge in company the name of Pitt, 
because he preferred Washington, cannot admit of a doubt ; but that he deserved to be written 
down traitcr, for mere matters of whim or caprice, or to be turned out of the unenvied situation 
of "gauging auld wives' barrels," because he thought there were some stains on the white robe 
of the constitution, seems a sort of tyranny new in the history of oppression. His love of 
country is recorded in too many undying lines to admit of a doubt now : nor is it that chivalrous 
love alone which men call romantic ; it is a love which may be laid up in every man's heart and 
practised in every man's life; the words are homely, but the words of Burns are always 
RXfre?sive: — 



HIS ILLNESS— LETTER TO CLARKE. ISa 

"The kettle of the kirk and state 

Perhaps a clout may fail in't, 
Bat deil a foreign tinkler loon 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Be Britons still to Britons true, 

Amang ourselves united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Shall British wroi^s be righted." 

•Bui while verses, deserving as these do to become the national motto, and sentiments loyal ^oni 
generous, were overlooked and forgotten, all his rash words about freedom, and his saiea?tiO 
Bailies about thrones and kings, were treasured up to his injury, by the mean and the malici&us 
Elis steps were watched and his words weighed ; when he talked with a friend in the street, lia 
was supposed to utter sedition; and when ladies retired from the table, and the wine circulated 
with closed doors, he was suspected of treason rather than of toasting, which he often did with 
much humour, the charms of woman ; even when he gave as a sentiment, " May our success be 
equal to the justice of our cause," he was liable to be challenged by some gunpowder captain, 
who thought that we deserved success in war, whether right or wrong. It is true that he hated 
with a most cordial hatred all who presumed on their own consequence, whether arising from 
wealth, titles, or commissions in the army; officers he usually called "the epauletted puppies," 
and lords he generally spoke of as " feather-headed fools," who could but strut and stare and be 
insolent. All this was not to be endured meekly: scorn was answered with scorn; and having 
no answer in kiAd to retort his satiric flings, his unfriends reported that it was unsafe for young 
men to associate with one whose principles were democratic, and scarcely either modest or safe 
for young women to listen to a poet whose notions of female virtue were so loose and his songa 
so free. These sentiments prevailed so far that a gentleman on a visit from London, told me he 
was dissuaded from inviting Burns to a dinner, given by way of welcome back to his native plac*', 
because he was the associate of democrats and loose people ; and when a modest dame of Dumfries 
expressed, through a friend, a wish to have but the honour of speaking to one of whose genius she 
was an admirer, the poet declined the interview, with a half-serious smile, saying, " Alas ! she 
Is handsome, and you know the character publicly assigned to me." She escaped the danger ol 
being numbered, it is likely, with the Annas and the Chlorises of his freer strains. 

The neglect of his country, the tyranny of the Excise, and the downfall of his hopes and for- 
tunes, were now to bring forth their fruits — the poet's health began to decline. His drooping 
looks, his neglect of his person, his solitary saunterings, his escape from the stings of reflection 
into socialities, and his distempered joy in the company of beauty, all spoke, as plainly as with a 
tongue, of a sinking heart and a declining body. Yet though he was sensible of sinking health, 
hope did not at once desert him : he continued to pour out such tender strains, and to show such 
flashes of wit and humour at the call of Thomson, as are recorded of no other lyrist: neither did 
he, when in company after his own mind, hang the head, and speak mournfully, but talked and 
Biailed and still charmed all listeners by his witty vivacities. 

On the 26th of June, 1795, he writes thus of his fortunes and condition to his friend Clarke, 
*' Still, still the victim of affliction; were you to see the emaciated figure who now holds the pen 
to you, you would not know your old friend. Whether I shall ever get about again is only known 
t-o Hi.M, the Great Unknown, whose creature I am. Alas, Clarke, I begin to fear the wt)r&t ! Al 
to my individual self I am tranquil, and would despise myself if I were not: but Burns'g po<3? 
widow and half-a-dozen of his dear little ones, helpless orphans ! Here I am as weak as a womaa t 
tear. Enough of this ! 'tis half my disease. I duly received your last, enclosing the note : it 
came extremely in time, and I am much obliged .to your punctuality. Again I must request joii 
to do me the same kindness. Be so very good as by return of post to enclose me cnother note : I 
trust you can do so without inconvenience, and it will seriously oblige me. If I must go, I leave 
a few friends behind me, whom I shall regret while consciousness remains. I know I shall live in 
their remembrance. 0, dear, dear Clarke ! that I shall ever see you again is I am afraid highly 
Tnprobable." This remarkable letter proves both the declining health, and the poverty of the 
foet: ij£ iigestion was so bad Aat he could taste neither flesh nor fish: porridge and milk b« 



uv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

eould alone swallow, and that but in small quantities. When it is recollected tha-t he had no mor« 
khan thirty shillings a week to keep house, and live like a gentleman, no one need wonder that hia 
wife hai to be obliged to a generous neighbour for some of the* chief necessaries for her coming 
confinement, and that the poet had to beg, in extreme need, two guinea notes from a distant friend. 

His sinking state was not unobserved by his friends, and Syme and M'Murdo united with Dr. 
Alaxwell in persuading him, at the beginning of the summer, to seek health at the Brow-well, a 
few miles east of Dumfries, where there were pleasant walks on the Solway-side, and salubrious 
breezes from the sea. which it was. expected would bring the health to the poet they had 
brc light to many. For a while, his looks brightened up, and health seemed inclined to return: 
his friend, the witty and accomplished Mrs. Riddel, who was herself ailing, paid him a visit. 
"I was struck," she said, *'with his appearance on entering the room: the stamp of death was 
imj ressed on his features. His first words were, * Well, Madam, have you any commands for the 
other world ?' I replied that it seemed a doubtful case which of us should be there soonest ; he 
looked in my face with an air of great kindness, and expressed his concern at seeing me so ill, 
with his usual sensibility. At table he ate little or nothing : we had a long conversation about 
bis present state, and the approaching termination of all his earthly prospects. He showed great 
concern about his literary fame, and particularly the publication of his posthumous works ; he 
Baid he was well aware that his death would occasion some noise, and +ha* '^verv 3crap of his writing 
would be revived against him, to the injury of his future reputation; that letters and verses, 
written with unguarded freedom, would be handed about by vanity or malevolence when no dread 
of his resentment would restrain them, or prevent malice or envy from pouring forth their venom 
on his name. I had seldom seen his mind greater, or more collected. There was fiequently a 
considerable degree of vivacity in his sallies ; but the concern and dejection I could not disguise, 
damped the spirit of pleasantry he seemed willing to indulge." This was on the evening of the 
5th of July ; another lady who called to see him, found him seated at a window, gazing on tho 
sun, then setting brightly on the summits of the green hills of Nithsdale. " Look how lovely the 
sun is," said the poet, "but he will soon have done with shining for me." 

He now longed for home : his wife, whom he ever tenderly loved, was about to be confined in 
child-bed: his papers were in sad confusion, and required arrangement; and he felt that desire 
to die, at least, among familiar things and friendly faces, so common to our nature. He had not 
long before, though much reduced in pocket, refused with scorn an offer of fifty pounds, which a 
speculating bookseller made, for leave to publish 'his looser compositions ; he had refused an 
oifer of the like sum yearly, from Perry of the Morning Chronicle, for poetic contributions to his 
paper, lest it might embroil him with the ruling powers, and he had resented the remittance of 
five pounds from Thomson, on account of his lyric contributions, and desired him to do so no 
more, unless he wished to quarrel with him ; but his necessities now, and they had at no time 
been so great, induced him to solicit five pounds from Thomson, and ten pounds from his cousin, 
James Burness, of Montrose, and to beg his friend Alexander Cunningham to intercede with the 
Commissioners of Excise, to depart from their usual practice, and grant him his full salary; "foi 
without that," he added, "if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger." Thomson sent the 
five pounds, James Burness sent the ten, but the Commissioners of Excise refused to be either 
nierc'ful or generous. Stobie, a young expectant in the customs, was both ; — he performed tho 
duties of the dying poet, and refused to touch the salary. The mind of Burns was haunted witlt 
the fears of want and the terrors of a jail; nor were those fears without foundation; one ^ViL 
liamson, to whom he was indebted for the cloth to make his volunteer regimentals, threatened l!ie 
one ; and a feeling that he was without money for either his own illness or the confinement of his 
wife, threatened the other. 

Burns returned from the Brow-well, on the 18th of July: as he walked from the little carriage 
which brought him up the Mill hole-brae to his own door, he trembled much, and stooped with 
weakness and pain, and kept his feet with difficulty: his looks were woe-worn and ghastly, and 
BO one who saw him, and there were several, expected to see him again in life. It was soon cir 
eulated through Dumfries, that Burns had returned worse from the. Brow-well ; that Maxweli 
Ijh ugbt ill of him, and that, in truth, he was dying. The anxiety of all classes was great; dif 



HIS DEATH. u 



Terences of opinion were forgotten, in sympathy for liis early fate : wherever two or three wer« 
met together their talk was of Burns, of his rare wit, matchless humour, the vivacity of his ccn* 
rersation, and the kindness of his heart. To the poet himself, death, which he now knew was all 
hand, brought with it no fear; his good-humour, which small matters alone ruffled, did not 
forsake him, and his wit was ever ready. He was poor — he gave his pistols, which he had used 
!igainst the smugglers on the Solway, to his physician, adding with a smile, that he had tried 
them and found them an honour to their maker, which was more than he could say of the bull? 
{>f mankind! He was proud — he remembered the indifferent practice of the corps to which h© 
bebnsed, and turning to Gibson, one of his fellow-soldiers, who stood at his bedside with wet 
eyis? '* John/' said he. and a gleam of humour passed over his face, " pray don't let the awkward' 
Bqna i fire over me/" It was almost the last act of his life to copy into his Common-place Book, the 
letters which contained the charge against him of the Commissioners of Excise, and his own eloquent 
refutation, leaving judgment to be pronounced by the candour of posterity. 

It has been injuriously said of Burns, by Coleridge, that the man sunk, but the poet was bright 
te the last : he did not sink in the sense that these words imply : the man was manly to the latest 
draught of breath. That he was a poet to the last, can be proved by facts, as well as by the -siford 
of the author of Christabel. As he lav silently arrowing weaker and weaker, he observed Jessie 
Lt.vars, .^ m^^^^est c.nd ooaudlul ycan^ oreuture, :.nd distex jO Oiit; of Lis Luthiea o\ ^he j^icise, 
watching over him with moist eyes, and tending him with the care of a daughter ; he rewarded 
her with o^e of those songs whlnh ar^ an insurance against forgetfulness. The lyrics of the north 
Uavt LiotLiug tner vLai. tLis ti^quibi^e s^c^nza.-— 

" Altho' thou maun never be mine, 
Altho' even hope is denied, 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing. 
Than aught in the world beside." 

His thoughts as he lay wandered to Charlotte Hamilton, and he dedicated some beautiful stanzai 
to her beauty and her coldness, beginning, "Fairest maid on Devon banks." 

It was a sad sight to see the poet gradually sinking ; his wife in hourly expectation of her sixth 
confinement, and his four helpless children — a daughter, a sweet child, had died the year before 
-with no one of their lineage to soothe them with kind words or minister to their wants. Jessi© 
Lewars, witb equal prudoace and attention, watched over them all : she could not help seeing 
that the thoughts of the desolation which his death would bring, pressed sorely on him, for he 
loved his children, and hoped much from his boys. He wrote to his father-in-law, .James Armour, 
at Mauchline, that he was dying, his wife nigh her confinement, and begged that his mother-in 
law would hasten to them and speak comfort. He wrote to Mrs. Dunlop, saying, " I have written 
to you so often without receiving any answer that I would not trouble you again, but for the cir- 
eum<:tdnces in which I am. An illness which has long hung about me in all probability will speedily 
lend rae beyond that bourne whence no traveller returns. Your friendship, with which for many 
years you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul : your conversation ar.d your corrt 
Bpondence were at once highly entertaining and instructive — with what pleasure did I use U 
break up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. 
Fari'well!" A tremor pervaded his frame; his tongue grew parched, and he was at timei 
deli J ions : on the fourth day after his return, when his attendant, James Maclure, held his medi' 
cine to his lips, he swallowed it eagerly, rose almost wholly up, spread out his hands, sprang 
forward nigh the whole length of the bed, fell on his face, and expired. He died on .he 21si of 
July, when nearly thirty-seven years and seven months old. 

The burial of Burns, on the 25th of July, was an impressive and mournful scene: half th« 
people of Nithsdale and the neighbouring parts of Galloway had crowded into Dumfries, to see 
their poet "mingled with the earth," and not a few had been permitted to look at his body, laid 
*ut for interment. It was a calm and beautiful day, and as the body was borne along the street 
towards the old kirk-yard, by his brethren of the volunteers, not a sound was heard but thfl 
neasured step and the solemn music : there was no impatient crushing, no fierce elbowing — th* 



Ivi LIFE OF EGBERT BURNS. 

crowd which filled the street seemed conscious what they were now losing for ever. Even whili 
this pageant was passing, the widow of the poet was taken in labour ; but the infant born in 
that unhappy hour soon shared his father's grave. On reaching the northern nook of the kirk 
yard, where the grave was made, the mourners halted ; the coffin was divested of the mort-cloth, 
and silently lowered to its resting-place, and as the first shovel-full of earth fell on the lid, t\i*f 
volunteers, too agitated to be steady, justified the fears of the poet, by three ragged volleys. He 
whi now writes this very brief and imperfect account, was present: he thought then, as he,thinkg 
now^ that all the military array of foot and horse did not harmonize with either the genius or the 
fortunes of the poet, and that the tears which he saw on many cheeks around, as the earth was 
replaced, were worth all the splendour of a show which mocked with unintended mockery the 
burial of the poor and neglected Burns. The body of the poet was, on the 5th of June, 1815, 
removed to a more commodious spot in the same burial-ground — his dark, waving locks looked 
then fresh and glossy — to afford room for a marble monument, which embodies, with neither skill 
nar grace, that well-known passage in the dedication to the gentlemen of the Caledonian Hunt: 
— '*The poetic genius of my country found me, as the prophetic bard, Elijah, did Elisha, at the 
plough, and threw her inspiring mantle over me." The dust of the bard was again disturbed, 
when the body of Mrs. Burns was laid, in April, 1834, beside the remains of her husband : hig 
Bkull was dug up by the district craniologists, to satisfy their minds by measurement that he was 
equal to the composition of "Tarn o' Shanter," or "Mary in Heaven." This done, they placed 
the skull in a leaden box, " carefully lined with the softest materials," and returned it, we hope 
for ever, to the hallowed ground. < 

Thus lived and died Robert Burns, the chief of Scottish poets : in his person he was tall and 
sinewy, and of such strength and activity, that Scott alone, of all the poets I have seen, seemed 
his equal : his forehead was broad, his hair black, with an inclination to curl, his visage uncom- 
monly swarthy, his eyes large, dark and lustrous, and his voice deep and manly. His sensibility 
was strong, his passions full to overflowing, and he loved, nay, adored, whatever was gentle and 
beautiful. He had, when a lad at the plough, an eloquent word and an inspired song for every 
fair face that smiled on him, and a sharp sarcasm or a fierce lampoon for every rustic who 
thwarted or contradicted him. As his first inspiration came from love, he continued through life 
to love on, and was as ready with the lasting incense of the muse for the ladies of Nithsdale as 
for the lasses of Kyle : his earliest song was in praise of a young girl who reaped by his side, 
when he was seventeen — his latest in honour of a lady by whose side he had wandered and 
dreamed on the banks of the Devon. He was of a nature proud and suspicious, and towards the 
close of his life seemed disposed to regard all above him in rank as men who unworthily possessed 
the patrimony of genius ; he desired to see the order of nature restored, and worth and talent in 
precedence of the base or the dull. He had no medium in his hatred or his love ; he never spared 
the stupid, as if they were not to be endured because he was bright ; and on the heads of the 
innocent possessors of titles or wealth he was ever ready to shower his lampoons. He loved to 
nart doubts in religion which he knew inspiration only could solve, and he spoke of Calvinism 
«rith a latitude of language that grieved pious listeners. He was warm-hearted and generous to 
a. degree, above all men, and scorned all that was selfish and mean with a scorn quite romantic. 
He was a steadfast friend and a good neighbour : while he lived at Ellisland few passed his dcx-i 
without being entertained at his table ; and even when in poverty, on the Millhole-brae, the pc.^: 
Bcldom left his door but with blessings on their lips. 

Of his modes of study he has himself informed us, as well as of the seasons and places iii 
which he loved to muse. He composed while he strolled along the secluded banks of the DooUj 
the Ayr, or the Nith ; as the images crowded on his fancy his pace became quickened, and in 
his highest moods he was excited even to tears. He loved the winter for its leafless trees, its 
swelling floods, ana its winds which swept along the gloomy sky, with frost and snow on theii 
wings : but he loved the autumn more — he has neglected to say why — the muse was then mor# 
liberal of her favours, and he composed with a happy alacrity unfelt in all other seasons. H€ 
ailed his mind and heart with the materials of song — and retired from gazing on woman's beauty, 



HIS GENIUS AND INSPIEATION. Ivi 

and from the excitement of her charms, to record his imprespions in verse, as a painter delineates 
on his canvas the looks of those who sit to his pencil. His chief place of study at Ellisland ia 
Btill remembered; it extends along the river-bank towards the Isle: there the neighbouring gentry 
love to walk and peasants to gather, and hold it sacred, as the place where he composed Tarn 
O'Sharter. His favourite place of study when residing in Dumfries, was the ruins of Lincludea 
College made classic by that sublime ode, " The Vision," and that level and clovery sward con- 
i)gcou5 tc the College, on the northern side of the Nith : the latter place was his favourite resort; 
It is kttown now by the name of Burns's musing ground, and there he conceived many of his lattef 
lyrics. In case of interruption he completed the verses at the fireside, where he swung to and fi'O 
in h.s arm-chair till the task was done : he then submitted the song to the ordeal of his wife's 
Toice, which was both sweet and clear, and while she sung he listened attentively, and altered or 
amended till the whole was in harmony, music and words. 

The genius of Bm'ns is of a high order: in brightness of expression and unsolicited ease and 
natural vehemence of language, he stands in the first rank of poets: in choice of subjects, in 
happiness of conception, and loftiness of imagination, he recedes into the second. He owes little 
of his fame to his subjects, for, saving the beauty of a few ladies, they were all of an ordinary 
kind : he sought neither in romance nor in history for themes to the muse ; he took up topica 
from life around which were familiar to all, and endowed them with character, with passion, with 
tenderness, with humour — elevating all that he touched into the regions of poetry and morals. 
He went to no far lands for the purpose of surprising us with wonders, neither did he go to 
crowns or coronets to attract the stare of the peasantry around him, by things which to them 
were as a book shut and sealed: "The Daisy" grew on the lands which he ploughed; "The 
Mouse" built her frail nest on his own stubble-field ; " The Haggis" reeked on his own table ; 
*' The Scotch Drink" of which he sang was the produce of a neighbouring still; " The Twa Dogs,'- 
which conversed so wisely and wittily, were, one of them at least, his own collies; " The Vision" 
is but a picture, and a brilliant one, of his own hopes and fears ; *' Tarn Samson" was a friend 
whom beloved; "Doctor Hornbook" a neighbouring pedant; " Matthew Henderson" a social 
captain on half-pay; " The Scotch Bard" who had gone to the West Indies was Burns himself; 
the heroine of " The Lament" was Jean Armour; and "Tarn O'Shanter" a facetious farmer of 
Kyle, who rode late and loved pleasant company, nay, even " The Deil" himself, whom he had 
the hardihood to address, was a being whose eldrich croon had alarmed the devout matrons of 
Kyle, and had wandered, not unseen by the bard himself, among the lonely glens of the Doon. 
Burns was one of the first to teach the world that high moral poetry resided in the humblest 
subjects: whatever he touched became elevated; his spirit possessed and inspired the commonest 
topics, and endowed them with life and beauty. 

His songs have all the beauties and but few of them the faults of his poems : they flow to the 
music as readily as if both air and words came into the world together. The sentiments are 
from nature, they are rarely strained or forced, and the words dance in their places and echo tha 
music in its pastoral sweetness, social glee, or in the tender and the moving. He seems always 
to write with woman's eye upon him: he is gentle, persuasive and impassioned: he appears to 
watch her looks, and pours out his praise or his complaint according to the changeful moods of 
her mind. He looks on her, too, with a sculptor's as well as a poet's eye : to him wh^^ works in 
marble, the diamonds, emeralds, pearls, and elaborate ornaments of gold, but load and injure 
the harmony of proportion, the grace. of form, and divinity of sentiment of his nymph or his 
gsddess — so with Burns the fashion of a lady's boddice, the lustre of her satins, or the sparkls 
rf her diamonds, or other finery with which wealth or taste has loaded her, are neglected as idle 
frippery ; while her beauty, her form, or her mind, matters which are of nature and not of 
fashion, are remembered and praised. He is none of the millinery bards, who deal in scented 
silks, spider-net laces, rare gems, set in rarer workmanship, and who shower diamonds and 
pearls by the bushel on a lady's locks : he makes bright eyes, flushing cheeks, the magic of 
the tongue, and the " pulses' maddening play" perform all. His songs are, in general, pas- 
toral pictures: he seldom finishes a portrait of female beauty without enclosing it in a naturaj 
^ame-work of waving woods, running streams, the melody of birds^ and the lights of heaven, 



nil LIFE OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



Thos^e who desire to feel Burns in all kis force, must seek some summer glen, when a country girl 
Eearches among his many songs for one which sympathizes with her own heart, and gives it full 
utterance, till wood and vale is filled with the melody. It is remarkable that the most naturally 
elegant and truly impassioned songs in our literature were written by a ploughman in honour of 
the rustic lasses around him. 

His poetry is all life and energy, and bears the impress of a warm heart and a clear under- 
Btandlng : it abounds with passions and opinions — vivid pictures of rural happiness and the rap- 
tns«es of successful love, all fresh from nature and observation, and not as they are seen through 
the spectacles of books. The wit of the clouted shoe is there without its coarseness : there is a 
prodigality of humour without licentiousness, a pathos ever natural and manly, a social joy akin 
liiifmetimes to sadness, a melancholy not unallied to mirth, and a sublime morality which seeks tc 
elevate and soothe. To a love of man he added an affection for the flowers of the valley, the 
fowls of the air, and the beasts of the field : he perceived the tie of social sympathy which united 
animated with unanimated nature, and in many of his finest poems most beautifully he has 
enforced it. His thoughts are original and his style new and unborrowed : all that he has written 
IS distinguished by a happy carelessness, a bounding elasticity of spirit, and a singular felicity 
of expression, simple yet inimitable ; he is familiar yet dignified, careless, yet correct, and con- 
ns" yet ^■'ea"' ^nd ^'^11. Ml ^>is ^^ni irv')h mrre ^-^ em^rdie^ in +b'} Irnsjuasie of ^nm'^l<^ li^'* -a 
dialect reckoned barbarous by scholars, but which, coming from the lips of inspiration, becomes 
classic and elevated. 

The prose of this great poet has much of the original merit of his verse, but it is seldom so 
natural and so sustained : it abounds with fine outflashings and with a genial warmth and vigour, 
bat it is defaced by false ornament and by a constant anxiety to say fine and forcible things. He 
Beems not to know that simplicity was as rare and as needful a beauty in prose as in verse ; he 
covets the pauses of Sterne and the point and antithesis of Junius, like one who believes that to 
write prose well he must be ever lively, ever pointed, and ever smart. Yet the account which he 
wrote of himself to Dr. Moore is one of the most spirited and natural narratives in the language, 
and composed in a style remote from the strained and groped-for witticisms and put-on sensibili' 
ties Df many of his letters: — "Simple," as John Wilson says, ** we may well call it; rich in 
f*jxcy, overflowing in feelings and iashed oflf in every other paragraph with the easy boldness of 
a gzeat master." 



PREPACE. 



fThe *Trst ^c'iti'^Di. prirtei? H FlWarnrck, Tnly T786. by '^<rhv ^^ils'>r, b'>r<) o»» tb^ ^itl'vnag•i^ 
&os<e simple words; — '* Poems, cMefly in the Scottish Dialect, by llobert Burns;" the following 
motto, marked *^ Anonymous," but evidently the poet'a own composition, was more ambitious:— 

" The simple Bard, unbroke by rules of art, 
He pours the wild effusions of the heart : 
And if inspired, 'tis nature's pow'rs inspire — 
Hers all the melting thrill, and hers the kindling fire."] 



The following trifles are not the production of the Poet, who, with all the advantages 
jf learned art, and perhaps amid the elegancies and idlenesses of upper life, looks down 
for a rural theme with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil. To the author of this, these, and 
other celebrated names their countrymen, are, at least in their original language, 
a fountain shut up, and a hook sealed. Unacquainted with the necessary requisites foi 
commencing poet by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in him • 
self and his rustic compeers around him in his and their native language. Though a 
rhymer from his earliest years, at least fro n the earliest impulse of the softer passions, 
it wa? not till very lately that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friendship 
awakened his vanity so far as to make him think anything of his worth showing : and 
none of the following works were composed with a view to the press. To amuse himself 
with the little creations of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigue of a laborious life; 
to transcribe the various feelings — the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears — in his own 
breast; to find some kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, always an alien 
icene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these were his motives for courting th9 
Muses, and in these he found poetry to be its own reward. 

Now that he appears in the public character of an author, he does it with fear and 
trembling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that even he, an obscure, namelesa 
Bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded as — an impertinent blockhead; 

(59> 



PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 



obtruding his nonsense on the world ; and, because he can make a shift to jingle a few 
doggtirel Scotch rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small conse- 
quence, forsooth ! 

It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shenstone, whose divine elegies do hoccsjf 
to our language, our nation, and our species, that " Humility has depressed many a 
genius to a hermit, but never raised one to fame !'' If any critic catches at the word 
genius, the author tells him, once for all, that he certainly looks upon himself as pos- 
sessed of some poetic abilities, otherwise his publishing in the manner he has done 
would be a manoeuvre below the worst character, which, he hopes, his worst enemy will 
ever give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the poor, 
unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, that even in his 
highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pretensions. These two justly- 
admired Scotch poets he has often had in his eye in the following pieces, but rather with 
a view to kindle at their flame, than for servile imitation. 

To his Subscribers, the Author returns his most sincere thanks. Not the mercenary 
bow over a counter, but the heart-throbbing gratitude of the Bard, conscious how much 
he owes to benevolence and friendship for gratifying him, if he deserves it, in that 
dearest wish of every poetic bosom — to be distinguished. He begs his readers, particu 
larly the learned and the polite, who may honour him with a perusal, that they will make 
every allowance for education and circumstances of life; but if, after a fair, candid, and 
impartial criticism, he shall stand convicted of dulnesn and nonsense, let him be done 
by as he would in that case do by others — let him be condemned, without mercy, Ui 
toatempt and obUvioa. 



THE 

POETICAL WORKS 

OF 

ROBERT BURNS. 



WINTER. 

A DIRGE. 

[\'lii8 io one of the earliest of the yyrVa rocorded com- 
positions : it w as written before tke death of his father, 
ind is called by Gilbert Bums, ' a juvenile production.' 
To walk by a river wliilc flooded, or through a wood on 
a rough winter day, end hear the storm howling among 
the leafless trees, exalted the poet's thoughts. " In such 
a season," he said, < just after a train of misfortunes, 1 
composed Winter, a Dirge. ^^] 

The wintrv west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
0^ the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw ; 
'yb.ile tumbling brown, the burn comes down^ 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest, 

And pass the heartless day. 

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'er'^st,"' 

The joyless winter day 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
Tiie tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join ; 
Ihe leafless trees my fancy please. 

Their fate resembles mine ! 

Thou Power Supt*erae, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because tbey are Thy will! 
I'hen all I Tv^ant (0, do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
6ince to enjoy Thou dost deny. 

Assist me to resign ! 

1 Dr. Young. 



DEATH AND DYING WCKD9 

OP 

POOR MAILIE, 

THE author's only PET YOWE. 
AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. 

[This tale is partly true; the poet's pet ewe g(A 
entang'ed in her tether, and tumbled into a ditch; tha 
face of ludicrous and awkward sorrow with which thin 
was related by Hughoc, the herd-boy, amused Burns t>o 
much, who was on his way to the plough, that he imm» 
diately composed the poem, and repeated it to his '.rcthei 
Gilbert when they met in the evening; the field Tft,ief^ 
the poet held the plough, and the ditch into which yooi 
Mailie fell, are still pointed out.] 

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether. 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch: 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Hughoc^ he cam doytin by. 
Wi' glowing e'en an' lifted ban's, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's ; 
He saw her days were near-hand ended» 
But, waes my heart! he could na meijri it! 
He gaped wide but naething spak — 
At length poor Mailie silence brak. 

<' thou, whose lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' case! 
My dying words attentive hear, 
An' bear them to my master dear. 

"Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! 



2 A neibor herd-callaa. 



(61) 



82 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Eut ca' them out tc park or hill, 
An' let them wander at their will ; 
So may his flock increase, and grow 
To scores o' lambs, an' packs of woo' I 

<* Tell him he was a master kin' 
An' ay was gude to me an' mine ; 
An' now my dying charge I gie him, 
My helpkiss lambs, I trust them wi' Mm. 

' 0, bid him save their harmless lives 
Frae dogS; and tods, an' butchers' knives ; 
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel ; 
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay, an' ripps o' corn. 

*' An' may they never learn the gaets 
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets ! 
To sink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great forbears, 
For monie a year come thro' the sheers ; 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread, 
An' bairns greet for them when they're dead 

" My poor toop4amb, my son an' heir, 
0, bid him breed him up wi' care ; 
An' if he live to be a beast, 
To pit some havins in his breast ! 
An' warn him what I winna name, 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots. 
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 

*'An' niest my yowie, silly thing, 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string ' 
0, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop. 
But ay keep mind to moop an' mell 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel! 

" And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath 
I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith : 
An' when you think upo' your mither, 
Mind to be kind to ane anither. 

"Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 
An' l)id him burn this cursed tether. 
An' for thy pains, thou'se get my blather." 

This said poor Mailie turn'd her head, 
ind clo£'d her een amang the dead. 



ni. 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 

[Burns, when he calls on the bards of Ayr and Boot 
to join in the lament for Mailie, intimates that he iegaid« 
himself as a poet. logg calls it a very elegant m< rse. 
but says that it resembles too closely '' The Ewie and th« 
Crooked Horn,'' to be admired as original: the shepieH 
might have remembered that they both resemble Serai" iu" 
" Life and death of the Piper of Kilbarchan."] 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose 
Our bardie's fate is at a close, 

Past a' remead; 
The last sad cape-stane of his woes ; 

Poor Mailie's dead. 

It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 
That could sae bitter draw the tear. 
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear, 

In Mailie dead. 

Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him. 

She ran wi' speed : 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, 

Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
An' could behave hersel wi' mense : 
I'll say't, she never brak a fence, 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Mailie's dead 

Or, if he wonders up the howc, 

Her living image in her yowe 

Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe. 

For bits o' bread ; 
An' down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dea^J 

She was nae get o' moorland tips,' 
Wi' tawted ket, an hairy hips ; 



1 VARIATION, 

' She was nae get o' runted rams, 
Wi' woo' like goats an' legs like trama; 
She was the floM^er o' Fairlie lambs, 

A famous breed ! 
Now Robin, greetin, chews the hal^ 

O' Mailie dead ' 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 6.1 


Folf her forbears were brought in ships 


How best o' chiels are whiles in want, 


Frae yont the Tweed: 


"While coofs on countless thousands rant 


Abonnierfleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 


And ken na how to wair't ; 


Than Mailie dead. 


But Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 




Tho' we hae little gear, 


Wae w^rth the man wha first did shape 


We're fit to win our daily bread. 


That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape ! 


As lang's we're hale and fier : 


Il make guid fellows girn an' gape, 


" Mair spier na, nor fear na,"*- 


Wi' chokin dread ; 


Auld age ne'er mind a feg, 


An' Robin'd bonnet wave wi' crape, 


The last o't, the warst o't. 


For Mailie dead. 


Is only but to beg. 


0, a' je bards on bonnie Doon ! 




A.n' wha on Ayr your chanters tune ' 


III. 


Come, jom the melancholious croon 


To lie in kilns and barns at e'en 


0' Robin's reed ! 


When banes are craz'd, and bluid i« thin, 


Wis heart will never get aboon ! 


Is, doubtless, great distress ! 


His Mailie's dead! 


Yet then content could make us llest; 




Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste 




0' truest happiness: 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 






Intended fraud or guile, 


IV. 


However Fortune kick the ba*, 




Has ay some cause to smile : 


FIRST EPISTLE TO D^VVIE, 


And mind still, you'll find still. 




A comfort this nae sma' ; 


A BROTHER POET. 






Nae mair then, we'll care then, 


[In tne summer of 1784, Burns, while t vrork in the 


Nae farther we can fa' 


garden, repeated this Epistle to his brother Gilbert, who 




was much pleased with the performance, which he con- 




■idered equal if not superior to some of Allan Ramsay's 


IV. 


Epistlfss, and said if it were printed he had no doubt that 


What tho', like commoners of air, 


■t would be well received by people of taste.] 


We wander out we know not where, 


— January/, [1784.] 


But either house or hall ? 




Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, 


I. 


The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 


\Vhile winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, 


Are free alike to all. 


And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 


In days when daisies deck the ground, 


And hing us owre the ingle, 


And blackbirds whistle clear, 


I set me down to pass the time, 


With honest joy our hearts will bound 


And spiQ a verse or twa o' rhyme. 


To see the coming year : 


In hamely westlin jingle. 


On braes when we please, then, 


While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 


We'll sit and sowth a tune ; 


Ben to the chimla lug, 


Syne rhyme till't we'll time till't, 


f grudge a wee the great folks' gift. 


And sing't when we hae done. 


That live sae bien an' snug : 




I tent less and want less 


V. 


Their roomy fire-side ; 


It's no in titles nor in rank ; 


But hanker and canker 


It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank. 


To see their cursed pride. 


To purchase peace and rest ; 




It's no in makin muckle mair ; 


II. 


It's no in books, it's no in lear, 


(t's hardly in a body's power 


To make us truly blest , 


To keep, at times, frae being sour, 
To see how things are shar'd; 




1 Baaway 



H THE POETICAL WOKKS 


If happiness hae not her seat 


It warms me, it charms me, 


And centre in the breast, 


To mention but her name : 


We m%y be wise, or rich, or great 


It heats me, it beets me. 


"But never can be blest* 


And sets me a' on flame ! 


Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 




Could make us happy lang ; 


IX. 


The heart ay's the part ay 
That makes us right or wrang. 


0, all ye pow'rs who rule above ! 
0, Thou, whose very self art love I 


VI. 


Thou know'st my words sincere ! 




The life-blood streaming thro' my hear^ 


Think ye, that sic as you and I, 


Or my more dear immortal part, 


Wha drudgf and drive thro' wet an' dry, 


Is not more fondly dear ! 


Wi' never-ceasing toil; 


When heart-corroding care and £. 4. 


Think ye, are we less blest than they, 


Deprive my soul of rest. 


Wha scarcely tent us in their way. 


Her dear idea brings relief 


As hardly worth their while ? 


And solace to my breast. 


Alas ! how aft, in haughty mood 


Thou Being, All-seeing, 


God's creatures they oppress ! 


hear my fervent pray'r f 


Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, 


Still take her, and make her 


They riot in excess ! 


Thy most peculiar care ! 


Baith careless and fearless 




Of either heaven or hell ! 


X. 


Esteeming and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale ! 


All hail, ye tender feelings d^o* • 
The smile of love, the frienoti^ vfcJj.. 




The sympathetic glow ! 


VII. 


Long since, this world's thorny ways 


Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 


Had number'd out my weary days, 


Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 


Had it not been for you! 


By pining at our state ; 


Fate still- has blest me with a friend, 


And, even should misfortunes come, 


In every care and ill ; 


I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some. 


And oft a more endearing band, 


An's thankfu' for them yet. 


A tie more tender still. 


They gie the wit of age to youth ; 


It lightens, it brightens 


They let us ken ourseP , 


The tenebrific scene. 


They make us see the naked truth. 


To meet with, and greet with 


The real guid and ill. 


My Davie or my Jean ! 


Tho' losses, and crosses, 




Be lessons right severe. 


XI. 


There's wit there, ye'll get there, 
Ye'll find nae other where. 


0, how that name inspires my style 
The words come skelpin, rank ani file, 


VIII. 


Araaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine. 


Bat tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts! 


As Phoebus and the famous Nine 


fTo say aught less wad wrang the cartes, 


Were glowrin owre my pen. 


And flatt'ry I detest,) 


My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 


This life has joys for you and I ; 


'Till ance he's fairly het ; 


And joys that riches ne'er could buy: 


And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp. 


And joys the very best. 


An' rin an unco fit: 


There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, 


But least then, the beast then 


The lover an' the frien* ; 


Should rue this hasty ride. 


Ve hae your Meg your dearest part, 


ni light now, and dight now 


> And I my darling Jean 1 


His sweaty, wizen' d hide. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



bd 



MECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET. 

[David Sillar, to whom these epistles are addressed, 
^aa at that time master of a country' school, and was 
welcome to Burns both as ascholarandawriter of verse. 
This epistle he prefixed to his poems printed at Kilmar- 
aock in the year 1789 : he loved to speak of his early 
comrade, and supplied Walker with some very valuable 
anecdotes: he died one of the magistrates of Irvine, on 
the 2d of May, 1830, at the age of seventy.] 

AULD NIBOR, 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair. 
For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter 

Some less maun sair. 

rfale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your clbuck jink and diddle. 
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle 

0' war'ly cares. 
Till bairn's bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld, gray hairs. 

But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit; 
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit ; 
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke ; 
fcjic haxms as you sud ne'er be faiket, 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 

Rivin' the words to gar them clink ; 

Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink, 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think 

Braw s.;ber lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commen' me to the Bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

0' rhymin' clink, 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban, 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' ; 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

An' while ought's there. 
Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin', 

An' fash nae mair. 



Leeze mo on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure. 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure. 

The Muse, poor hizzie' 
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure. 

She's seldom lazy. 

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie : 
The warl' may play you monie a shavie ; 
But for the Muse she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er so puir, 
Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie 

Frae door to door. 



VI. 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL 

" O Prince ! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, 
That led th' embattled Seraphim to war." 

Milton 

[The beautiful and relenting spirit in which this fine 
poem finishes moved the heart of one of the cold»at of 
our critics. " It was, I think," says Gilbert BuruK, •' in 
tn« winter of 1784, as we were going with carts for coali 
to the family fire, and I could yet point out the particukii 
spot, that Robert first repeated to me the 'Address to 
the Deil.' The idea of the address was suggested to 
him by running over in his mind the many ludicrous 
accounts we have of that august personage."] 

THOU ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 

Closed under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud poor wretches I 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
An' let poor damned bodies be • 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie. 

E'en to a deil. 
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me. 

An' hear us squeel I 

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; 
Far kend an' noted is thy name ; 
An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame. 

Thou travels far; 
An', faith I thou's neither lag nor lamo, 

Nor blate nor scaui . 

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion. 
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin; 
Whyles, on the strong-winged tempest flyio, 
Tirlin the kirks : 



66 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Whiles, in the human bosom pryin, 
Unseen thou lurka. 

I've heard my reverend Graunie say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray ; 
Or where auld-riin'd castles, gray, 

Ned to the moon, 
li » fright the nightly wand'rer's way 

Wi' eldricht croon. 

When twilight did my Graunie summon, 
To say her prayers, douce, hanest woman ! 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin, 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, rustlin, thro' the boortries comin, 

Wi' heavy groan. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 

The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, 

Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright 

Ayont the lough ; 
Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sough. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake. 
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, 
When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick — quaick- 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake. 

On whistling wings. 

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, 
Tell how wi' you, on rag weed nags. 
They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed; 
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain : 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's taen 

By witching skill ; 
An'' lawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaea 

As yell's the bill 

Fhence mystic knots mak great abuse 

On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse ; 

^hen the best wark-lume i' the house. 

By cantrip wit, 
Ce ingitant made ti< worth a louse. 

Just at the bit. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 
An' float the jinj?'in icy-bo. rd, 



Then water-kelpies haunt the foord. 
By your direction ; 

An' nighted trav'Uers are allur'd 

To their destruction 

An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is, 
The bleezin, curst^ mischievous moBkey® 

Delide his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is. 

Ne'er mair to rise 

When masons' mystic word an' grip 
In storms an' tempests raise you up. 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 

Or, strange to tell ! 
The youngest brother ye wad whip 

Aff straught to hell ! 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard, 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 
An' all the soul of love they shar'd. 

The raptur'd hour. 
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry sward, 

In shady bow'r : 

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog I 

Ye came to Paradise incog. 

An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa' !) 
An' gied the infant world a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds, an' ree^stit gizz. 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz 

'Mang better folk. 
An' sklented on the man of Uzz 

Your spitefu' joke ? 

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
An' brak him out o' house an' hall. 
While scabs an' botches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw, 
An' lows'd his ill tongu'd, wicked achif\ 

Was warst ava ? 

But a' your doings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce, 
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, 

Down to this time, 
"Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, 
A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin. 




"AULD MARE MAGGIE." 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



67 



Borne luckless hour will send him linkin 
To your black pit ; 

But, faith ! he'll turn a corner jinkin, 
An' cheat you yet. 

But fare ye weel, auld Nickie-benI 
-wad ye tak a t>^ought an' men' ! 
Ve aiblins might- iinna ken — 

Suii hae a stake — 
fee wae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'n for your sake I 



VII. 

THE AULD FARMER'S 

NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS 

AULD MARE MAGGIE, 

«»N GlVIIfS HER THE ACCTISTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO 
HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. 

["Whenever Burns has occasion," says Hogg, "to 
address or mention any subordinate being, however 
mean, even a mouse or a flower, then the'e is a gentle 
pathos in it-that awakens the finest feelings of the heart." 
The Auld Farmer of Kyle has the spirit of a knight- 
errant, and loves his mare according to the rules of 
chivalry; and well he might:' she carried him safely 
home from markets, triumphantly from wedding-brooses ; 
she ploughed the stiffest land ; faced the steepest brae, 
and, moreover, bore home his bonnie bride with a con- 
Bciousness of the loveliness of the load.] 

A GUiD New-year I wish thee, Maggie I 
Hae, there's a rip to thy auld baggie: 
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie, 

I've seen the day 
Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiflf, an' crazy, 
An' thy auld hide as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, 

A bonny gray : 
ill should been tight that daur't to raize thee, 

Ance in a day. 

rhou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A filly, buirdly, steeve, an' swank. 
An set weel down a shapely shank, 

As e'er tread yird ; 
ii could hae flown out-owre a ttank, 

Like ony bird. 

rt'p now some nine-an'->wenty year, 
•<in" thou was my guid -father's Meerej 



He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 

An' fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, 

An' thou was stark 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie : 
Tho' ye was tf ickle, slee, an' funny, 

Ye ne'er was donsio 
But hamely, tawie, quiet an' cannie, 

An' unco sonsie. 

That day ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride : 
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide, 

For sic a pair. 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble, 
An' wintle like a saumont-coble, 
That day, ye was a j inker noble, 

For heels an' win' ! 
An' ran them till they a' did wauble. 

Far, far, behin'l 

When thou an' I were young an' skeigh, 

An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh. 

How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, 

An' tak the road ! 
Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh. 

An' ca't thee mad. 

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, 
We took the road ay like a swallow : 
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 

For pith an' speed ; 
But every tail thou pay't them hollow. 

Where'er thou gaed. 

The sma', droop-rurapl't, hunter cattle. 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 

An' gar't them whaizle : 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a whattle 

0' saugh or hazle. 

Thou was a noble fittie-lan'. 

As e'er in tug or tow was drawn : 

Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, 

In guid March- weather, 
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han' 

For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't, an' fetch*t, an' fliskit^ 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 



68 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



.4.n' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, 
Wi' pith an' pow'r, 

'Till spiritty knowes wad rair't and risket, 
An' slypet owre. 

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, 
An' threateu'd labour back to keep, 
1 gied thy cog a wee-bit heap 

Aboon the timmer ; 
I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit ; 

The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it ', 

Thou never lap, an' sten't, an' breastit, 

Then stood to bl^w ; 
But yist thy step a wee thing hastit. 

Thou snoov't awa. 

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' ; 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa. 

That thou hast nurst : 
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa. 

The vera warst. 

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought. 
An, wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
An' monie an anxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Ytt here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld, trusty servan'. 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin^ 
An' thy auld days may end in starvin, 

For my last fow, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether. 

To some hain'd rig, 
VHiare J9 may nobly rax your leather, 

Wi' sma' fatigue. 



VIII. 

TO A HAGGIS. 

[The vehement nationality of this poem is bnt a smal 
part of its merit. The hnggis of the nortli is thf mincei 
pie of the south; both are characteristic of the people 
the ingredients which compose tt => former are all of 
Scottisli growth, including the b-^ nich contains thffra 
the ingredients of the latter a gatliered chiefly fv3 
the four quarters of the globe : the haggis is tlie triumpl 
of poverty, the minced pie the triumph of wealth.] 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face. 
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race ! 
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm 
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill. 
Your hurdles like a distant hill. 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
While thro' your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 

His knife see rustic-labour dight, 
An' cut you up wi' ready slight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright 

Like onie ditch; 
And then, what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin, rich ! 

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strivft 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, 
'Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive. 

Bethankit hums. 

Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad staw a sow. 
Or fricassee wad mak her spew 

Wi' perfect sconner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view 

On sic a dinner? 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 

As feckless as a wither' d rash. 

His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, 

His nieve a nit ; 
Tbro' bloody flood or field to dash, 

how unfit ! 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed. 

The trembling earth resounds his t^eacl^ 



Clap in his wahe nieve a blade, 

He'll mak it whissle; 
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, 
Like taps o' thrissle. 

Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware 

That jaups in luggi*^; 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 

Gie her a Ha^is ! 



IX. 



A PRAYEi?, 

UHDEB THE PRESSURE Of V^CJINT ANGUISH. 

f" There ^xn.- ._ ^enw /t my life," says Burns 

" that my sr ,vas brokf o^ /epeated losses and dis- 
asters, wnich threatened aj 1 indeed effected the ruin of 
my fortune. My bod-;, *oo, was attacked by tne most 
dreadful distemrar, a h/pochondria or confirmed melan- 
eholy. In this w etf-'aed state, the recollection of which 
nakoB me yet «huuder, I hung my harp on the willow- 
trees, excpt in s«rae lucid intervals, in one of which I 
JODxposed the following."] 

Thou Great Being ! what Thou art 

Surpasses me to know^: 
Yet sure I am, that known to Thee 

Are all Thy works below. 

Thy creature here before Thee stands, 

All wretched and distrest ; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey Thy high behest. 

Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
0, free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death ! 

Uut if I must afflicted be, 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then, man my soul with firm rt solves 

Tj bear and not repine ! 



X. 



A PRAYER 

IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 

[I have heard the third verse of this very moving 
Prayer quoted by scrupulous men as a proof that tie 
poet imputed his errors to the Being who had en lowed 
him with wild and unruly passir)ns. The meaniiig i| 
very different : Burns fe/( the torrent-strengtl. c^f pa»8,os 
overpowering his resokticn, and trusted that God wou,<; 
be merciful to theerrorsof oneon whom he had bei?t'>vtr«4 
such o'ermastering gifts.] 

Thou unknown, Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ? 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour 

Perhaips I must appear ! 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something,, loudly, in my breast, ■ 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me, 
With passions wild and strong ; 

And list'niug to their witching voicp 
Has often led me wrong. 

Where human weakness has come short, 

Or frailty stept aside. 
Do Thou, All-Good ! for such thou art. 

In shades of dai^kness hide. 

Where with intention I have err'd, 

No other plea I have. 
But, Thou art good ; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



XI. 

STANZAS 

ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

[These verses the poet, ii ;us common- p.a' e b3<^, 
calls " Misgivings in the H. ar of Despondency mti Pio 
spect of Death." He elsevvliere says th^.y were c^ai' 
posed when fainting-fits and other alanring sympt.^m* 
of a pleurisy, or some other dangerous dis'^'^'er, ijrst 9tt1 
nature on the alarm.] 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene ? 

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms? 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewinf 
Btorms : 



70 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



ts it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or Death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, " Forgiv* my foul oflFence !" 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, should my Author health again dispense, 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way : 
Again in folly's path might go astray ; 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, 

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? 
Who sin so oft have mourn' d, yet to temptation 
ran? 

Thou, great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

Or still the tumult of the raging sea : 
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me 

Those headlong furious passions to confine ; 
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ; 
0, aid me with Thy help. Omnipotence Divine ! 



XII. 

A WINTERNIGHT. 

"^ Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are 
That bide the pelting of the pitiless storm ! 
How shall j'our houseless heads and unfed sides, 
Your looped and widow'd raggedness defend you 
From seasons such as these ?" 

Shakspeare. 

[" This poem," says my friend Thnraas Carlyle, "is 
worth several homilies on n:%rcy, for it is the voice of 
Mercy herself. Burns, indeed, lives in sympathy: his 
loul rushes forth into all the realms of being : nothii^ 
ihat has existence can be inJilferent to him."] 

When biting Boreas, foil and doure. 
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r ; 
When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r 

Far south the lift. 
Dim-darkening through the flaky show'r, 

Or whirling ddft : 

A.e night the storm the steeples rocked, 
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked. 
While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked, 
Wild-eddying swirl- 



Or through the mining outlet booked, 

Down headlong hurl. 

Listening, the doors an' winnocks rattle. 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 

0' winter war. 
And through the drift, deep-lairing cpratU© 

Beneath a scar. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing. 
That, in the merry moEths o' spring. 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cower thy chitterin^ wing, 

An' close thy e'e ? 

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, 
Lone from your savage homes exiled, 
The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cote spoiled 

My heart forgets, 
While pitiless thf. --"--'^o+ ^^rild 

^^^^ _^ ■" ^*»at8. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, 
Dark muffled, viewed the dreary plain ; 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Rose in my soul. 
When on my ear this plaintive strain 

Slow, solemn, stole : — 

** Blow, blow, ye winds, wHh heavier gust ! 
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost; 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
Not all your rage, as now united, shows 
More hard unkindness, unrelenting. 
Vengeful malice unrepenting. 
Than heaven-illumined man on brother man 
bestows ; 
See stern oppression's iron grip, 
Or mad ambition's gory hand, 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 
Woe, want, and murder o'er a land! 
Even in the peaceful rural vale, 
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
How pamper'd luxury, flattery by her side, 
The parasite empoisoning her ear, 
With all the servile wretches in the rear, 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide: 
And eyes the simple rustic hind, 

Whose toil upholds the glittering show, 
A creature of another kind. 
Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, 
Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus ?ilfl^ 
below. 



01^' KOBERT BURNS. 



a 



Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, 
With lordly honour's lofty brow, 
The powers you proudly own ? 
Is there, beneath love's noble name. 
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, 

To bless himself alone ! 
Aiark maiden innocence a prey 

Tc lore-pretending snares. 
Tills boasted honour turns away, 
Shunning soft pity's rising sway, 
Kegardless of the tears and unavauiup- prayers 1 
Perhaps this hour, in misery's s.-)ua id nest. 
She strains your infant to her joyiess breast^ 
Ajid with a mother's fears shrinks at the rock- 
ing blast ! 
Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 
"Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
Ill satisfied keen nature's clamorous call, 
Stretched on his straw he lays himself to 
sleep, 
While through the ragged root and chinky 
wall. 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap ! 
Think on the dungeon's grim Confine, 
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 
Guilt, erring man, relenting view I 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
The wretch, already crushed low 
By cruel fortune's undeserved blow ? 
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss !*' 

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 

Shook off the pouthery snaw, 
And hailed the morning with a cheer — 

A cottage-rousing craw ! 

But deep this truth impressed my mind — 

Through all his works abroad, 
The heart benevolent and kind 

Tb£ most resembles God. 



xin. 

REMORSE. 

A FRAGMENT. 



( I ont.rely agree," Ba;'8 Burns, " with the author of 

^* Theory of Moral Sentiments^ that Remorse is the 

'tao^f. painful sentiment that can embitter the human 

»c»jm; an ordinary' pitch of fortitude may bear up admi- 

«My well, under those calamities, in the procuremeat 



of which we oir sp ves have had no land : but when out 
follies or crimes uave 'i.ade us wretclied, to bear all 
with manly firmneoK Jino at the same i..i. • have a propel 
penitential sense ot '>ur miscondiict, o r dorious effoil 
of self-command. "i 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, 
That press the soul, or wring the mind with 

anguish, 
Beyond comparison tiio w^ r?t are those 
That to our folly or on; c.ilt we owe. 
In every other circumstance the mind 
Has this to say, * It was no deed of mine ;' 
But wien to all the evil of misfortune 
This Sling is added — 'Blame thy foolish self!' 
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt, — 
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others; 
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov a us, 
Nay, more, that very iove their cause of ruinl 
burning jou m all thy store of torments, 
There's not a keener lash! 
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his hearl 
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 
Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 
And, after proper purpose of amendment, 
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace • 
0, happy ! happy ! enviable man ! 
glorious magnanimity of soul I 



XIV. 
THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 

A CANTATA. 

[This inimitable poem, unknown to Currie and uuheard- 
of while the poet lived, was first given to the world, with 
other characteristic pieces, by Mr. Stewart of Glasgow, 
in the year 1801. Some have surmised that it is not tlie 
work of Burns; but the parentage is certain: the origina' 
manuscript at the time of its composition, in 1785, waa 
put into th^ hands of Mr. Richmond of Mauchline, and 
afterwards given by Burns himself to Mr. WoodburOi 
factor of the laird of Craigengillan ; the song of " For a' 
that, and a' that" was inserted by the pt,et, with bit 
name, in the Musical Museum of February, 179f . (Jro- 
mek admired, yet did not, from overruling advice priiil 
it in the Reliques, for which he was sharp'y censured '■)j 
Sir Walter Scott, in the Quarterly Review. The sceae 
of the poem is in Mauchline, whei^ Poosie Nansie had 
her change-house. Only one copy .n the handwriting; 
of Burns is supposed to exist ; and of it a very i.ccurati 
fac-simile has been given.] 

RECITATIVO. 

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, 
Or wavering like the bauckie-lird, 
Bedim cauld Boreas' blast ; 



r2 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



When hailstanes drive «^i' bitter skyte 


Yet let my country need me, 


And infant frosts begin to bite, 


With Elliot to head me. 


In hoary cranreuch drest ; 


I'd clatter on my stumps 


Ae night at e'en a merry core 


At the sound of a drum 


0' randie, gangrel bodies, 


Lai de daudle, &o. 


In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore. 




To drink their orra duddies : 


And now tho' I must beg, 


Wi' quafl&ng and laughing, 


With a wooden arm and leg, 


They ranted an' they sang; 


And many a tatter'd rag 


Wi' jumping and thumping, 


Hanging over my bum, 


The vera girdle rang. 


I'm as happy with my wallet, 




My ' ottle and my callet, 


First, neist the fire, in auld red rags, 


As when I used in scarlet 


Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 


To follow a drum. 


And knapsack a' in order ; 


Lai de daudle, &o. 


His doxy lay within his arm, 




Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm — 


What tho' with hoary locks 


She blinket on her sodger : 


I must stand the winter shocks, 


An' ay he gies the tozie drab 


Beneath the woods and rocks 


The tither skelpin' kiss, 


Oftentimes for a home. 


While she held up her greedy gab 


When the tother bag I sell. 


Just like an aumous dish. 


And the tother bottle tell, 


Ilk smack still, did crack still, 


I could meet a troop of hell. 


Just like a cadger's whip. 


At the sound of a drum. 


Then staggering and swaggering 


Lai de daudle, &o 


He roar'd this ditty up — 






REGIT ATIVO. 


AIR. 


He ended ; and kebars sheuk. 


Tune—" Soldiers' Joy.'^ 


Aboon the chorus roar ; 




While frighted rattons backward leuk. 


I AM a son of Mars,, 


And seek the benmost bore ; 


Who have been in many wars, 


A fairy fiddler frae the neuk. 


And show my cuts and scars 


He skirl'd out — encore ! 


Wherever I come ; * 


But up arose the martial Chuck, 


This here was for a wench. 


And laid the loud uproar. 


And that other in a trench. 




When welcoming the French 




At the sound of the drum. 


AIR. 


Lai de daudle, &c. 


TvinQ—^' Soldier laddie.'' 


My 'prenticeship I past 


I ONCE was a maid tho' I cannot tell when, 


Where my leader breath'd his last. 


And still my delight is in proper young mei: ; 


When the bloody die was cast 


Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddi* 


On the heights of Abram ; 


No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 


I served out my trade 


Sing, Lai de dal, &c. 


When the gallant game was play'd, 




Vjid the Moro low was laid 


The first of my loves was a swaggering blade. 


At the sound of the drum. 


To rattle the thundering drum was his trade; 


Lai de daudle, &c. ^ 


His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 




Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 


I lastly was with Curtis, 


Sing, Lai de dal, &c. 


Amon^ the floating batt'ries, 




A ad there I left for witness 


But the godly old chaplain left him in the I'lrch, 


An arm and a limb ; 


The sword I forsook for the sake of the church ; 



OF ROBERT BURNS. Tl 


Hs Tentur'd the soul, and I risk'd the body, 


Poor Andrew that tumbles for eport, 


'Tvas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 


Let naebody name wi' a jeer ; 


Sing, Lai de dal, &c. 


There's ev'n I'm tauld i' the court 




A tumbler ca'd the premier. 


Full soon I grew s'ck of my sanctified sot, 




The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 


Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad 


From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, 


Maks faces to tickle the mob ; 


I fteked no more but a sodger laddie. 


He rails at our mountebank squad 


Sing, Lai de dal, &c. 


Its rivalship just i' the job. 




And now my conclusion I'll tell. 


But the pe&ce it reduc'd me to beg in despair. 


For faith I'm confoundedly dry ; 


Till I met my old boy in a Cunningham fair ; 


The chiel that's a fool for himsel'. 


His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy. 


Gude L— d ! he's far dafter than I 


W^y heart is rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. 




Sing, Lai de dal, &c. 


EECITATITO. 


And now I have liv'd — I know not how long, 


Then neist outspak a raucle carlin, 


And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 


Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterling, 


But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass 


For monie a pursie she had hooked, 


steady, 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 


And had in mony a well been ducked. 


Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 


Sing, Lai de dal, &c. 


But weary fa' the waefu' woodie I 


o> » , 


Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began 


RECITATIVO. 


To wail her braw John Highlandman. 


Poor Merry Andrew in the neuk. 


AIR. 


Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; 


Tune — " an ye were dead, guidman" 


They mind't na wha the chorus teuk. 




Between themselves they were sae busy : 


A Highland lad my love was born, 


At length wi' drink and courting dizzy 


The Lalland laws he held in scorn \ 


He stoitered up an' made a face ; 


But he still was faithfu' to his clan. 


Then turn'd, an' laid a smack on Griazie, 


My gallant braw John Highlandman. 


Sjne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace. 


CHORUS. 


AIR. 


Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman I 


TvLno—'^Auld Sir Symon:* 


Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman ! 




There's not a lad in a' the Ian' 


Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou. 


Was match for my John Highlandman. 


Sir Knave is a fool in a session ; 




He's there but a 'prentice I trow. 


With his philibeg an' tartan plaid, 


But I am a fool by profession. 


An' gude claymore down by his side, 




The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 


Mj grannie she bought me a beuk, 


My gallant braw John Highlamdman 


And I held awa to the school ; 


Sing, hey, &c. 


I fear I my talent misteuk, 




But what will ye hae of a fool ? 


We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 




An' liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; 


For drink I would venture my neck, 


For a Lalland face he feared none. 


A hizzie's the half o' my craft. 


My gallant braw John Highlandman. 


But what could ye other expect. 


Sing, hey, &c. 


Of ant that's avowedly daft? 






They banished him beyond the sea. 


1 ance was ty'd up like a stirk, 


But ere the bud was on the tree, 


For civilly swearing and quaflfing ; 


Adown my cheeks the pearls ran. 


^ ance was abused in the kirk, 


Embracing my John Highlandman. 


Fcr touzling a lass i' my daffin. 


Sing, hey, &c. 



14 THE POETICAL WOEKS 


But, och ! they catch'd Mm at the last, 


Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms, 


And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 


May whistle owre the lave o't. 


My curse upon them every one, 


1 am, &c. 


Tliey've hang'd my braw John Highlandman. 




Sing, hey, &c. 


RECITATIVO, 


A_nd now a widow, I must mourn, 


Her charms had struck a sturdy cairl. 


Tie pleasures that will ne'er return: 


As weel as poor gut-scraper ; 


No comfort but a hearty can. 


He taks the fiddler by the beard, 


Wben I think on John Highlandman. 


And draws a roosty rapier — 


Sing, hey, &c. 


He swoor by a' was swearing worth. 




To speet him like a pliver. 


RECITATIVO. 


Unless he wad from that time forth , 


A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, 


Relinquish her for ever. 


Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, 
Her strappan limb and gausy middle. 


Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee 


He reach'd na higher. 
Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle. 


Upon his hunkers bended. 


And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face, 


An' blawn't on fire. 


And sae the quarrel ended. 




But tho' his little heart did grieve 


Wi' hand on hainch, an' upward e'e. 


When round the tinkler prest her, 


He croon' d his gamut, one, two, three, 


He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, 


Then in an Arioso key. 


When thus the caird address'd her: 


The wee Apollo 




Set off wi' Allegc-etto glee 


AIR. 


His giga solo. 


Tune—" Clout the Caudron." 


AIR. 


My bonny lass, I work in brass, 


TnnQ—'' Whistle o'er the lave o'i.'* 


A tinkler is my station : 




I've travell'd round all Christian ground 


Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 


In this my occupation : 


And go wi' me and be my dear. 


I've taen the gold, an' been enrolled 


And then your every care and fear 


In many a noble squadron : 


May whistle owre the lave o't. 


But vain they search' d, when off I march'd 


CHORUS. 


To go and clout the caudron. 


I am a fiddler to my trade, 


I've taen the gold, &c. 


An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, 
The sweeteit still to wife or maid, 


Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp. 


Was whistle owre the lave o't. 


Wi' a' his noise and caprin. 
And tak a share wi' those that bear 


At kirns and weddings we'se be there, 
And ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 
We'll house about till Daddie Care 


The budget and the apron. 
And by that stoup, my faith and houp. 
An' by that dear Kilbaigie,' 


Siflgs whistle owre the lave o't. 


If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant. 


1 am, &c. 


May I ne'er weet my craigie. 


An' by that stoup, &o 


E<te merrily thfe banes we'll byke. 




And sun oursells about the dyke, 


RECITATIVO. 


And at our leisure, when ye like, 


The caird prevail' d — th' \mblushing fair 


We'll whistle owre the lave o't. 


In his embraces sunk. 


I am, &o. 


Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair. 




An' partly she was drunk. 


But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms, 
\nd while I kittle hair on thairma, 




1 A peculiar sort of whiskey. 



OF ROBERT BURxVS. 



n 



Sir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man of spunk, 
"VVish'd unison between the pair, 

An' made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 

But urjhii Cupid shot a shaft, 

That play'd a dame a shavie, 
A sailor rak'd her fore and aft, 

Behint the chicken cavie. 
Iler lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, 

Tho' limping wi' the spavie, 
fie hirpl'd up, and lap like daft. 

And shor'd them Dainty Davie 

boot that night. 

He was a care-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid, 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 
He had nae wish but — to be glad, 

Nor want but — when he thirsted ; 
He hated nought but — to be sad, 

And thus the Muse suggested 

His sang that night. 

AIE. 

Tune— "^or a' that, an* a' thai." 
I am a bard of no regard 

"Wi' gentle folks, an' a' that : 
But Homer-like, the glowran byke, 

Frae town to town I draw that. 

CHORUS. 

For a' that, an' a' that, 

An' twice as muckle's a' that ; 
I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', 

I've wife eneugh for a' that. 

I never drank the Muses' stank, 

Castalia's burn, an' a' that ; 
But there it streams, and richly reams, 

My Helicon I ca' that. 

For a' tliat, &c. 

Oreit love I bear to a' the fair. 

Their humble slave, an' a' that; 
But lordly will, I hold it still 

A mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, &c. 

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 

"Wi' mutual love, an a' that : 
But frr how lang the flie may stang, 

Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, &c. 



Their tricks and craft have put me daft, 
They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; 

But clear your decks, and here's the sex ' 
I like the jads for a' that. 

CHORUS. 

For a' that, an' a' that. 

An' twice as muckle's a' that ; 

My dearest bluid, to do them guid. 
They're welcome till't for a' that, 

RECITATIVO. 

So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa s 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 

Re-echo'd from each mouth : 
They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd t^fteii 

duds. 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds. 

To quench their lowan drouth. 
Then owre again, the jovial thrang, 

The poet did request. 
To loose his pack an' wale a sang, 
A ballad o' the best ; 
He rising, rejoicing. 

Between his twa Deborahs 
Looks round him, an' found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 

AIR. 

I 
Tune — " JoUi/ Mortals, fill your Glasses" 

See ! the smoking bowl before us, 
Mark our jovial ragged ring ! 

Round and round take up the chorus, 
And in raptures let us sing. 



A fig for those by law protected I 
Liberty's a glorious feast ! 

Courts for cowards were erecteu. 
Churches built to please the pnes* 

What is title ? what is treasure ? 

What is reputati'H 
If we lead a life ot pieasuit, 

'Tis no matter how or where ! 
A fig, &c. 

With the ready trick and fable, 
Round we wander all the day ; 

And at night, in barn or stable, 
Hug our doxies on the hay. 
A fig, &c. 



ra 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Does the train-attended carriage 
Through the country lighter rove ? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
TVitness brighter scenes of love ? 
A fig, &c. 

Life is all a variorum, 

We regard not how it goes ; 
Let them cant about decorum 

Who have characters to lose. 
A fig, &c. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all the wandering train ! 
Here's our ragged brats and callets ! 

One and all cry out — Amen ! 

A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Churches built to please the priest. 



XV. 

DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. 

A TRUE STORY. 

[John Wilson, raised to the unwelcome elevation of 
oero to this poem, was, at the time of its composition, 
schoolmaster in Tarbolton : he was, it is said, a fair 
scholar, and a very worthy man, but vain of his know- 
ledge in medicine — so vain, that he advertised his merits, 
and offered advice gratis. It was his misfortune to 
encounter Burns at a mason meeting, who, provoked by a 
long and pedantic speech, from the Dominie, exclaimed, 
the future lampoon dawning upon him, "Sit down, Dr. 
Hornbook." On his way home, the poet seated himself on 
the ledge of a bridge, composed the poem, and, overcome 
with poesie and drink,-fell asleep, and did not awaken 
tiL the sun was shinmg over Galston Moors. Wilson 
went afterwards to Glasgow, embarked in mercantile 
lud matrimonial speculations, and prospered, and is still 
l^ospering] 

Some books are lies frae end to end, 
And some great lies were never penn'd: 
Et'l ministers, they ha'e been kenn'd, 

■n holy rapture, 
A •*^>!iSvng wnid, at times, jto vend, 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 

But this that I am gaun to tell, 
Which lately on a night befel. 
Is just as true's the Deil's in h-11 

Or Dublin-city ; 
Tbat e'er he nearer comes oursel 

'S a muckle pity. 



The Clachan yill had made me canty, 

I was na fou, but just had plenty ; 

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay 

To free the ditches ; 
An' hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenn'd ay 

Frae ghaists an' witches 

The rising moon began to glow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre: 
To count her horns with a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I could na tell. 

I was come round about the hill. 
And todlin down on Willie's mill, 
Setting my staff with a' my skill. 

To keep me sicker; 
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, 

I took a bicker 

I there wi' something did forgather, 

That put me in an eerie swither ; 

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther. 

Clear-dangling, hang ; 
A three-taed leister on the ither 

Lay, large an' lang. 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For fient a wame it had ava : 

And then, its shanks, 
They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' 

As cheeks o' branks. 

«Guid-een," quo' I; " Friend, hae ye beef 

mawin, 
When ither folk are busy sawin ?" 
It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan'. 

But naething spak ; 
At length, says I, " Friend, where ye gaun. 

Will ye go back ?" 

It spak right howe, — " My name is Death, 
But be na fley'd."— Quoth I, " Guii faith, 
Ye're may be come to stap my breath ; 

But tent me, billie j 
I red ye weel, take care o' skaith, 

See, there's a gully !" 

"Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle^ 
I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; 
But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wad nae mind it, no that spittle 

Out-owre mv beard." 



OF ROBERT BURxVS. 



It 



"Weel, weel !" says I, " a bargain be't; 


"Ev'n them he canna get attended. 


Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't ; 


Although their face he ne'er had kend it, 


We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, 


Just sh — in a kail-blade, and send it, 


Come, gies your news I 


As soou's he smells' t, 


This while ye hae been mony a gate 


Baith their disease, and what will mend it, 


At mony a house. 


At once he tellg't. 


"Ay, ay!" quo' he, an' shook his head, 


" And then a' doctor's saws and -whittles, 


" It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed 


Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettlea, 


BIe' I began to nick the thread, 


A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, 


An' choke the breath: 


He's sure to haej 


Folk maun do something for their bread, 


Their Latin names as fast he rattles 


An' sae maun Death. 


As A B C. 


" Sax thousand years are near hand fled 


"Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees; 


Sin' I was to the hutching bred. 


True sal-marinum o' the seas ; 


An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid, 


The farina of beans an*^ -^ease, 


To stap or scar me ; 


±ie has't in plenty , 


Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade, 


Aqua-fortis, what you please, 


An' faith, he'll waur me. 


He can content ye 


« Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, 


" Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 


Deil mak his kings-hood in a spleuchan ! 


Urinus spiritus of capons ; "^ 


He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan* 


Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings. 


An' ither chaps. 


Distill'd perse; 


The weans hand out their fingers laughin 


Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings. 


And pouk my hips. 


And mony mae." 


" See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, 


"Waes me for Johnny Ged's-Hole^ now." 


They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart ; 


Quo' I, "If that thae news be true 1 


But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 


His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, 


And cursed skill, 


Sae white and bonie. 


Has made them baith no worth a f— t. 


Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew ; 


Damn'd haet they'll kill. 


They'll ruin Johnie '" 


•* 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen. 


The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 


I threw a noble throw at ane ; 


And says, "Ye need na yoke the pleugb. 


Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain ; 


Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh, 


But-deil-ma-care, 


Tak ye nae fear ; 


It just play'd dirl on the bane, 


They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh 


But did nae mair 


In twa-three year. 


" Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, f 


"Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death. 


And had sae fortified the part, 


By loss o' blood or want of breath. 


Thai when I looked to my dart, 


This night I'm free to tak my aith. 


It was sae blunt. 


That H:(rnbock'B ikii^ 


fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 


Has clad a score i' their last siaith, 


Of a kail-runt. 


By drap an' pill. 


" I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 


" An honest wabster to his trade, 


t nearhand cowpit wi' my hurry. 


Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel breu 


hut yet the bauld Apothecary, 


Gat tippence- worth to mend her head. 


Withstood the shock ; 


When it was sair ; 


1 might as weel hae tried a quarry 


The wife slade cannie to her bed. 


0' hard whin rock. 


But ne'er spak mai* 


1 Buchan's Domestic Medicine. 


« The grave-digger 



T8 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



"A countra laird had ta'en the batts, 
Or some curmurring in his guts, 
His only son for Hornbook sets, 

An' pays him well. 
The lad, for twa guid giramer-pets, 

Was laird himsel. 

«* A bonuie lass, ye kend her name, 

Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame; 

Phe trusts hersel, to hide the shame, 

In Hornbook's care ; 
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame. 

To hide it there. 

<' That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way; 
Thus goes he on frorn day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kiu, an' slay, 

An's weel paid for't; 
Vet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, 

Wi' his d-mn'd dirt: 

" But, hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Though dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self-conceited sot. 

As dead's a herrin' : 
Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat. 

He gets his fairin' I" 

But just as he b^gan to tell. 

The auld kirk-h.*rumer strak' the bell 

Borne wee shorv iaour ayont the twal, 

Which rais'd us baith : 
I took the way th^i pleas'd mysel', 

And sae did Death. 



XVI. 



THE TWA HERDS: 



THE HOLY TULZIE. 

[Tli« actors in this indecent drama were Moodiej 
ti' nistfji of Ricartoun, and Russell, helper to the minister 
■/ Kilmarnock: though apostles of the '* Old Light," 
'i*V forgot their brotherhood in the vehemence of con- 
■;■» VST-, and went, it is said, to blows. " This poem," 
■v.^i >.V'nB, " with a certain description of the clergy as 
ve^i as .aity, met with a roar of applause."] 

a' ye pious godly flocks, 
Weel fed on pastures orthodox, 
Wha now will keep you frae the fox. 

Or worrying tykes, 
l)r wha will tent the waifs and crocks, 

About the dykes ? 



The twa best herds in a' the wast, 
That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast, 
These five and twenty simmers past, 

! dool to tell, 
Ha'e had a bitter black out-cas-t 

Atween themsel. 

0, Moodie, man, and wordy Ri *3sell. 
How could you raise so vile a -ustle, 
Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle 

And think it fine : 
The Lord's cause ne'er got sic a twistle 

Sin' I ha'e min'. 

0, sirs ! whae'er wad ha'e expeckit 

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit. 

Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit. 

To wear the plaid. 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit, 

To be their guide. 

What flock wi' Hoodie's flock could rank, 
Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison'd sour Arminian stank, 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, ay clear they drank,— 

sic a feast ! 

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, 
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood. 
He smelt their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in, 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid. 

And sell their skin. 

What herd like Russell tell'd his talo 
His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, 
He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, 

O'er a' the height, 
And saw gin they were sick or hale. 

At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub. 

Or nobly fling the gospel club. 

And New-Light herds could nicely (kub, 

Or pay their skin ; 
Could shake them o'er the burning dub, 

Or heave them in. 

Sic twa — ! do I live to see't. 
Sic famous twa should disagreet. 
An' names, like villain, hypocrite, 

Ilk ither gi'en. 
While New-Light herds, wi' laughin' spit*, 

Say neither's liein* I 



An' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, 

There's Duncan, deep, and Peebles, shaul, 

iJ'it chiefly thou apostle Auld, 

We trust in thee, 
That fhou wilt work them, hot and cauldj 

Till they agree. 

C(»n8it3er, Sirs how we're beset ; 
There'fi scarce a new herd that we get 
Dut comes frae mang that cursed set 

I winna name ; 
i hopt frae heav'n to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

Dalrymple has been lang our fae, 
M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae, 
Aud that curs'd rascal call'd M'Quhae, 

And baith the Shaws, 
Tnat aft ha'e made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 

Auld "Wodrow lang has hatch'd mischief, 
\V'e thought ay death wad bring relief, 
but he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chield wha'U soundly bufi" our beef; 

I meikle dread him. 

And mony a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forbye turn-coats amang oursel. 

There's Smith for ane, 
I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill. 

An' that ye'll fin'. 

! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills. 

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, 

Come, join your counsel and your skills 

To cow the lairds. 
And got the brutes the powers themsels 

To choose their herds ; 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 
And Learning in a woody dance, 
AiiJ that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair, 
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, 
M'Gill's close nervous excellence, 
M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense. 

And guid M'Math, 
I*"]' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance, 

May a' pack aff. 



XVII. 

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. 

" And send the godly in a pet to pray." 

POPK. 

[Of this snrcastic and too daring poem many copies ia 
manuscript were circulated while the poet liyed, hiHl 
though not unknown or unfelt by Currie, it eo2tJa«.ed 
unpublislied till printed by Stewart with the Jol.y 
Beggars, m 1801. Holy Willie was a small farme' 
leading elder to Auld, a name well known to all lovMI 
of Burns; austere in speech, scrupulous m all outward 
observances, and, what is kno\^n by the name of a '< pro- 
fessing Christian." He experienced, however, a "sore 
fall;" he permitted himself to be " filled fou," and in a 
moment when "self got in" made free, it is jaid, with 
the money of the poor of the parish. His name wai 
William Fisher.] 

THOU, wha in the heavens dost dwelL 
Wha, as it pleases best thysel'. 
Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, 

A' for thy glory. 
And no for ony gude or ill 

They've done afore thee' 

1 bless and praise thy matchless might, 
Whan thousands thou hast left in night, 
That I am here afore thy sight. 

For gifts and grace, 
A burnin' and a shinin' light 

To a' this place. 

What was I, or my generation. 
That I should get sic exaltation, 
I wha deserve sic just damnation. 

For broken laws. 
Five thousand years 'fore my creation. 

Thro' Adam's cause. 

When frae my mither's womb I fell. 
Thou might hae plunged me in hell, 
To gnash my gums, to weep and wall, 

In burnin' lake, 
Whar damned df>vils roar and yell, 

Cham'd to a stake. 

Yet I am here a chosen sample ; 

To show thy grace is great and ample; 

I'm here a pillar in thy temple. 

Strong bs a rock, 
A guide, a buckler, an example. 

To a' thy flock. 

But yet, Lord ! confess I must, 
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust; 



eJO THE POETICAL WOftKS 


And sometimes, too, wi' warldly frtj'itf 


To think how we stood groanin', shakin', 


Vile self getn m ; 


And swat wi' dread. 


But thou remem^ ers we are dast, 


While Auld wi' hingin lips gaed sneakin* 


Defil'd in sin. 


And hung his head. 


Lord ! yestr'-ep *Jicu kens, wi' Meg— 


Lord, in the day of vengeance try him, 


Thy par Jon I sincerely beg, 


Lord, visit them wha did employ him, 


! may'"! ne'er be a livin' plague 


And pass not in thy mercy by 'em. 


To my dishonour, 


Nor hear their pray'r ; 


An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg 


But for thy people's sake destroy 'em, 


Again upon her. 


And dinna spare. 


Besides, I farther maun allow, 




Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow — 


But, Lord, remember me an mine. 




Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine. 


But Lord, that Friday I was fou, 


When I came near her. 


That I for gear and grace may shine, 
Excell'd by nane, 

And a' the glory shall be thine. 
Amen, Amen I 


Or else, thou kens, thy servant true 


Wad ne^er hae steer'd her. 


Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn, 




Beset thy servant e'en and morn. 

Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 






'Cause he's sae gifted ; 




If sae, thy han' Cxaon e'en be borne 


XV 111. 


Jntil thou lift it. 






EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIP 


lord, bless thy chosen in this place, 


[We are informed by Richmond of Mauchline, tliat 


For here thou hast a chosen race : 


when he vras clerk m Gavin Hamilton's office, Burns cam« 


But God confound their stubborn face. 


in one morning and said, " I have just composed a poem, 


And blast their name. 


John, and if you will write it, I will repeat it." Ha 


Wha bring thy elders to disgrace 


repeated Holy Willie's Prayer and Epitaph ; Hamilton 
came in at the moment, and having read them with delight 


And public shame. 


ran laughing with them in his hand to Robert Aiken. 




The end of Holy Willie was other than godly : in one 


Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, 


of his visits to Mauchline, he drank more than was need 


He .irinks, and swears, and plays at carts, 


ful, fell into a ditch on his way home, and was found 


Fet has sae mony takin' arts. 


dead in the morning.] 


Wi' grit and sma'. 


Hebe Holy Willie's sair worn clay 


Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts 


Takes up its last abode ; 


He steals awa. 


His saul has ta'en some other way, 


An' whan we chasten'd him therefore, 


I fear the left-hand road. 


Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, 




As set the warld in a roar 


Stop ! there he is, as sure's a gun, 


0' laughin' at us ; — 


Poor, silly body, see him ; 


Curse thou his basket and his store. 


Nae wonder he's as black's the grun. 


Kail an"* potatoes. 


Observe wha's standing wi' him. 


Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r, 


Your brunstane devilship I see. 


Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr ; 


Has got him there before ye ; 


Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare 


But baud your nine-tail cat a wee. 


Upo' their heads. 


Till ance you've heard my story. 


uord weigh it down, and dinna spare, 




For their misdeeds. 


Your pity I will not implore, 


, 


For pity ye hae nane ; 


Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aiken, 


Justice, alas ! has gi'en him o'er, 


My very heart and saul are quakin', 


And mercy's day is gaen. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



81 



But hear me, sir, deil as ye are, 
Look something to your credit ; 

A. coof like him wad stain your name, 
Tf it were kent ye did it. 



XIX. 
THE INVENTORY; 

-ft AN'WEB. TO A MANDATE BY THE STJHVETOB 
OF THE TAXES. 

[We have heard of a poor play-actor who, by a humor- 
fju3 inventory of his effects, so moved the commissionerB 
of tne incorae tax, that they remitted all claim on him 
then and for ever ; we know not that this very humorous 
inventory of Burns had any such effect on Mr. Aiken, the 
surveyor of the tas.es. It is dated " Mossgiel, February 
22d, 1TS6," and is remarkable for wit and sprightliness, 
and for the information which it gives us of the poet's 
Habits, household, and agricultural implements.] 

, Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faithfu' list, 
0' gudes, an' gear, an' a' my graith, 
To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith. 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I have four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
A? ever drew afore a pettle. 
My Ian' afore's' a gude auld has been. 
An' wight, an' wilfu' a' his days been. 
My Ian ahin's^ a weel gaun fillie. 
That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,* 
An' your auld burro' mony a time, 
In days when riding was nae crime — 
But ance, whan in my wooing pride, 
[ like a bUckhead boost to ride, 
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to, 
(L — d pardon a' my sins an' that too !) 
I play'd my fillie sic a shavie, 
She's a' bedevil'd with the spavie. 
My fur ahin's'' a wordy beast, 
Kb e'er in tug or tow was trac'd. 
The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie, 
A d — u'd red wud Kilburnie" blastie ! 
Forbye a cowt o' cowt's the wale, 
As ever ran afore a tail. 
If he be spar'd to be a beast, 
He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least. — 
Wheel carriages I ha'e but few. 
Three carts, an' twa are feckly new ; 

' The fore-horse on the left-hand in the plough. 
* The hindmost on the left-hand ia the plough. 
6 



Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg an' baith the trams are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spin'le. 
An' my auld mither brunt the trin'le. 

For men I've three mischievous boys, 
Run de'ils for rantin' an' for noise ; 
A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other. 
Wee Davock bauds the nowt in fother. 
I rule them as I ought, discreetly, 
An' aften labour them completely ; 
An' ay on Sundays, duly, nightly, 
I on the Questions targe them tightly ; 
Till, faith, wee Davock' s turn'd sae gleg, 
Tho' scarcely langer than your leg, 
He'll screed you aff Effectual c-alling. 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 
I've nane in female servan' station, 
(Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation !) 
I ha'e nae wife — and that my bliss is. 
An' ye have laid nae tax on misses ; 
An' then, if kirk folks dinna cluich me. 
I ken the devils darena touch me. 
Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented; 
Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted 
My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daddy in her face. 
Enough of ought ye like but grace ; 
But her, my bonnie sweet wee lady, 
I've paid enough for her already. 
An' gin ye tax her or her mither, 
B' the L — d ! ye'se get them a'thegithey 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Nae kind of license out I'm takin' ; 
Frae this time forth, I do declare 
I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair; 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 
My travel a' on foot I'll shank it, 
I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit. 
The kirk and you may tak' you that 
It puts but little in your pat ; 
Sae dinna put me in your buke. 
Nor f ' r my ten white shillings luke 

This list wi' my ain hand I wrote it, 
The day and date as under noted ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic Robert Buens. 



3 Kilmarnock. 

4 The hindmost horse on the right-hand in the ploM*fc 



XX. 

THE HOLY FAIR. 

A. robe ot seeming truth an 1 trust 

Hid crafty observation; 
And secret hung, with poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation : 
\ mask that like the gorget sl.ow'd 

Dye-varying on the pigeon 
And for a mantle large and biL<ad, 

He wrapt him in Religion, 

Hypocrisy a-la-mode. 

fine scene of this fine poem is the churchyard of 
ftiau^hline, and the subject handled so cleverly and 
iharply id the laxity of manners visible in matters so 
»<) einn and terrible as the administration of the sacrament. 
'* fh)s was indeed," says Lockhart, " an extraordinary 
peiformance : no partisan of any sect could whisper that 
majico had formed its principal inspiration, or that its 
e.'iicf attraction lay in the boldness with which indi- 
viduals, entitled and accustomed to respect, were held 
lip to ridicule : it was acknowledged, amidst the sternest 
muttenings of wrath, that national manners were once 
more in the hands of a national poet." <' It is no doubt," 
says Hogg, "a reckless piece of satire, but it is a clever 
ore, and must have cut to the bone. But much as I 
ftc'mire the poem I must regret that it is partly borrowed 
fr )ra Fergusson."] 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn. 

An' snuff the caller air. 
The rising sun owre Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin' ; 
The hares were hirplin down the furs, 

The lav'rocks they were chantin' 

Fu' sweet that day, 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad. 

To see a scene sae gay, 
Three hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelpin up the way ; 
Tw'a had manteeles o' dolefu' black, 

But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
The third, that gaed a-wee a-back, 

Wat in the fashion shining 

Fu' gay that day 

The twa appear'd like sisters twin, 

In feature, form, an' claes ; 
Their visage, wither'd, lang, an' thin^ 

An" sour as ony slaes : 
The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, 

As light as ony lambie, 
,\n' wi' a curchie low did stoop, 

Kn soon a." e ^r she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 



Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, "Sweet 'ass, 

1 think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, 

But yet I canna name ye." 
Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak, 

An' taks me by the hands, 
" Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck. 

Of a" the ten commands 

A screed some day. 

"My name is Fun — ^your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye hae ; 
An' this is Superstition here. 

An' that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to Mauchline holy fair. 

To spend an hour in daffin : 
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, 

We will get famous laughin' 

At them this day." 

Quoth I, "With a' my heart I'll do't; 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on. 
An' meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin' !" 
Then I gaed hame at erowdie-time 

An' soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side to side 

Wi' monie a wearie body, 

In droves that dsiy. 

Here farmers gash, in riJir' graith 

Gaed hoddin by their cottars ; 
There, swankies young, in braw braid-ciaithi 

Are springin' o'er the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, 

An' farls bak'd wi' butter, 

Fu' crump that day. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

An' we maun draw our tippence. 
Then ia we go to see the show. 

On ev'ry side they're gath'rin'. 
Some carrying dails, s"ome chairs an' stools. 

An' some are busy blethrin' 

Eight l»ud that day. 

Here stands a shed to feni t>e rhow'rs, 

An' screen our countra g.'»ntrv, 
There, racer Jess, and twa three wh res, 

Are blinkin' at the entry. 



L 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



SI 



ffere sits a raw of titlin' jades, 
"Wi* heaving breast and bare neck, 

A.n' there a batch o' wabster lads, 
Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock 
For fun this day. 

Kere some are thinkin' on their sins, 

An' some up:' their claes ; 
ine arses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Amther sighs an' prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces ; 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin' on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 

O happy is that man an' blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Wha's ain dear lass that he likes best, 

Comes clinkin' down beside him ; 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back. 

He sweetly does compose him ; 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom, 

Unkenn'd that day. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation : 
For Moodie speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' damnation. 
Should Ilornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' God present him. 
The vera sight o' Moodie's face, 

To's ain het hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith 

Wi' ratlin' an' wi' thumpin' ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath. 

He's stampin an' he's jumpin' ! 
liis lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout, 

His eldritch squeel and gestures. 
Oh, how they fire the heart devout. 

Like cantharidian plasters, 
On sic a day. 

But hark ' the tent has chang'd its voice : 

Th(re's peace an' rest nae langer: 
For a' the real judges rise, 

They canna sit for anger. 
Smith opens out his cauld harangues. 

On practice and on morals; 
in' a if the godly poiu- in thrangs, 

1 ^ gic the jars an' barrels 

A lift that day. 



What signifies his barren shine, 

Of moral pow'rs and reason ? 
His English style, an' gestures fine, 

Are a' clean out o^ season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan heathen, 
The moral man he does define. 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that Jay 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison'd nostrum ; 
For Peebles, frae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' God, 

An' meek an' mim has view'd it. 
While Common-Sense has ta'en the road, 

An' afi", an' up the Cowgate,' 

Fast, fast, that day. 

Wee Miller, neist the guard relieves, 

An' orthodoxy raibles, 
Tho' in his heart he weel believes. 

An' thinks it auld wives' fables : 
But faith ! the birkie wants a manse. 

So, cannily he hums them ; 
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense 

Likehafflins-wayso'ercomes him 
At times that day. 

Now but an' ben, the Change-house fills 

Wi' yill-caup commentators : 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills. 

An' there the pint-stowp clatters; 
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' langj 

Wi' logic, an' wi' scripture. 
They raise a din, that, in the end. 

Is like to breed a rupture 

wrath that day, 

Leeze me on drink ! it gies us mair 

Than either school or college : 
It kindles wit, it waukens lair. 

It pangs us fou' o' knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny whetp. 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails, on drinking deep, 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day 

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul an' body, 
Sit round the table, weel content. 

An' steer about the toddy. 

1 A at; 'jet so called, which fj-ces the tent in Ma.ucli.iBa 



84 



THE POETICAL WO iKS 



On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, 
They're making observations ; 

While ^ome are cozie i' the neuk, 
An' formin' assignations 

To meet some day. 

But noAV the Lord's ain trumpet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin', 
An' echoes back return the shouts : 

Black Russell is na' sparin' : 
His piercing words, like Highlan' swords, 

Divide the joints and marrow ; 
His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell, 

Our vera sauls does harrow^ 

Wi' fright that day. 

A vast, unbottom'd boundless pit, 

Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane, 
Wha's ragin' flame, an' scorchin' heat. 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! 
The half asleep start up wi' fear, 

An' think they hear it roarin'. 
When presently it does appear, 

'Twas but some neibor snorin' 

Asleep that day. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How monie stories past, 
An' how they crowded to the yill. 

When they were a' dismist: 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, 

Amang the furms an' benches : 
An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, 

Was dealt about in lunches. 

An' dawds that day. 

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife. 

An' sits down by the fire, 
Syne draws her keb^uck an' her knife ; 

The lasses they are shyer. 
Tha auld guidmen, about the grace^ 

Frne side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 

An' gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' lang that day. 

Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that hae naething; 
Sma' need has he to siy a grace. 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
O wives, be mindfu' ance yoursel 

How bonnie lads ye wanted. 



» Shakspeare's Hamlet. 

♦ A.lluding to a scoffing ballad vvrhich was made on the 



An' dinna, for a kebbuck-he«l, 
Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day 1 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' ratlin tow, 

Begins to jow an' croon ; 
Some swagger hame, the best they diw, 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon : 
Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, 

They're a' in famous tune 

For crack that day. 

How monie hearts this day converts 

0' sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane, 

As saft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine ; 

There's some are fou o' brandy; 
An' monie jobs that day begin 

May end in houghmagandie 

Some ither day. 



XXI. 
THE ORDINATION. 

" For sense they little owe to frugal heav'n — 
To please the mob they hide the little giv'n.'' 

[This sarcastic sally was written on the admission of 
Mr. Mackinlay, as one of the ministers to the Laigh, oi 
parochial Kirk of Kilmarnock, on the 6th of April, 1786 
That reverend person was an Auld Light professor, and 
his ordination incensed all the New LiglUs, hence the 
bitter levity of the poem. These dissensions have long 
since past away : Mackinlay, a pious and kind-hearted 
sincere man, lived down all the personalities of tlie satirSj 
and though unwelcome at first, he soon learned to regard 
them only as a proof of the powers of the poet ] 

Kilmarnock wabsters fidge an' claw, 

An' pour your creeshie nations : 
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, 

Of a' denominations, 
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a', 

An' there tak up your stations; 
Then aff to Begbie's in a raw. 

An' pour divine libations 

For joy this day. 

Curst Common-Sense, that imp o' hell, 
Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ;2 

admission of the late reverend and worthy Mr. LvjadMl 
to the Laigh Kirk. 



__ __ — , 

OF EOBERT BURNS. 8c 


But Oliphant aft made her yell, 


Come, screw the pegs, wi' tunefu' cheep. 


An' Russell sair misca'd her; 


And o'er the thairms be tryin' ; 


This day Mackiulay taks the flail, 


Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep, 


And he's the boy will blaud her ! 


An a' like lamb-tails flyin' 


He'll clap a shangan on her tail, 


Fu' fast this day! 


An' set the bairns to daud her 




Wi' dirt this day. 


Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' airn, 




Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin', 


Mak haste an' turn king David o>riC; 


As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, 


An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; 


Has proven to its ruin : 


0' double verse come gie us tour. 


Our patron, honest man! Glencaiin, 


An' skirl up the Bangor : 


He saw mischief was brewin' ; 


This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure. 


And like a godly elect bairn 


Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, 


He's wal'd us out a true ane, 


For Heresy is in her pow'r, 


And sound this day 


And gloriously she'll whang her 




Wi' pith this day. 


Now, Robinson, harangue nae mair. 




But steek your gab for ever ■ 


Come let a proper text be read, 


Or try the wicked town of Ayr, 


An' touch it aff wi' vigour, 


For there they'll think you clever . 


How graceless Ham* leugh at his dad. 


Or, nae reflection on your lear, 


Which made Canaan a niger ; 


Ye may commence a shaver : 


Or Phineas^ drove the murdering blade, 


Or to the Netherton repair, 


Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigour ; 


And turn a carpet-weaver 


Or Zipporah,3 the scauldin' jad, 


Afi'-hand this day. 


Was like a bluidy tiger 


. 


I' th' inn that day. 


Mutrie and you were just a match. 




We never had sic twa drones : 


There, try his mettle on the creed, 


Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch 


And bind him down wi' caution, 


Just like a winkin' baudrons : 


That stipend is a carnal weed 


And ay' he catch'd the tither wretch, 


He taks but for the fashion ; 


To fry them in his caudrons ; 


And gie him o'er the flock, to feed. 


But now his honour maun detach, 


And punish each transgression ; 


Wi' a' his brimstane squadrons, 


Especial, rams that cross the breed. 


Fast, fast this day. 


Gie them sufficient threshin'. 


r 


Spare them nae day 


See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes 
She's swingein' through the city ; 


Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, 


Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays I 


And toss thy horns fu' canty ; 


I vow it's unco prettji : 


Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dale, 


There, Learning, with his Greekisb face, 


Because thy pasture's scanty ; 


Grunts out some Latin ditty ; 


For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 


And Common Sense is gaun she says. 


Shall fill thy crib in plenty. 


To mak to Jamie Beattie 


\n' ruats o' grace the pick and w&!e, 


Her plaint this ciaj 


No gi'en by way o' dainty. 


But there's Morality himsel'. 


But ilka day. 


Embracing all opinions ; 


Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep, 
To thiDk upon our Zion ; 


Hear, how he gies the tither yell 
Between his twa companions ; 


\nd hing our fiddles up to sleep. 


See, how she peels the skin an' fell, 


Like baby-clouts a-dryin' : 


As ane were peelin' onions ! 




Now there— they're packed aif to hell, 
And banished our dominions, 


» Gep«8iB, IX. 22. 2 Numbers, xxv. 8. 


3EjB'a;g, iv 25 


Henceforth this day. 



86 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



0, happy day! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter : 
Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys, 

That Heresy can torture : 
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, 

And cowe her measure shorter 

By th' head some day. 

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, 

And here's for a conclusion, 
To every New Light' mother's son, 

From this time forth Confusion : 
If mair they deave us wi' their din, 

Or Patronage intrusion. 
We'll light a spunk, and ev'ry skin, 

We'll rin them afi' in fusion 

Like oil, some day. 



XXIT. 
THE CALF. 

TO THE BEV. MR. JAMES STEVEN, 

On his text, Malachi, iv. 2. — "And ye shall go forth, 
and grow up as Calves of the stall." 

[The ".augh wnich this little poem raised against 
Steven -was a loud one. Burns composed it during the 
sermon to which it relates and repeated it to Gavin 
Hamilton, with whom lie happened on that day to dine. 
The Calf — for the name it seems stuck — came to Lon- 
flon, where the younger brother of Burns heard him 
treach in Covent Garden Chapel, in 1790.] 

Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true^ 

Though Heretics may laugh ; 
For instance ; there's yourseP just now, 

God knows, an unco Calf! 

And should some patron be so kind. 

As bless you wi" a kirk, 
I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll fina^ 

Ye're still as great a Stirk. 

But, if the lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly power, 

You e'er should be a stot! 

1 " New Light" is a cant phrase in the West of Scot- 
and, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of 
."■'o-w'^h has defended 



Tho', when some kind, connubial dear. 

Your but-and-ben adorns, 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns 

And in your lug, most reverend James, 
To hear you roar and rowte. 

Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 
To rank amang the nowte. 

And when ye're number' d wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head — 

" Here lies a famous Bullock!" 



XXIII. 

TO JAMES SMITH. 

•' Friendship ! mysterious cement of the eoui ! 
. Sweet'ner of life and solder of society ! 
1 owe thee much ! — " 

Blair. 

[The James Smith, to whom this epistle is addressed, 
was at that time a small shopkeeper in Mauchline, and 
the comrade or rather follower of the poet m all hi* 
merry expeditions with " Yill-caup commentators." He 
w^as present in Posie Nansie's when the Jolly Beggari 
fi st dawned on the fancy of Burns : the comrades of ti»e 
poet's heart were not generally very successful in life : 
Smith left Mauchline, and established a calico-printing 
manufactory at Avon near Linlithgow, where his friend 
found him in all appearance prosperous in 1788: bat thii 
was not to last ; he failed in his speculations and went 
to the West Indies, and died early. His wit was readv 
and his manners lively and unaffected.] 

Dear Smith, the sleest, paukie thief, 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts , 
For ne'er a besom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun an' moon. 
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, 
Ye 7e cost me twenty pajr o' shoon 

Just gaun to see you ; 
And ev'ry ither pair that's done, 

Mair ta'en I'm wi' yea 

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, 
To mak amends for scrimpit stature, 
She's turn'd you aff, a human creature 

On her first plan ; 
And in her freaks, on every feature 

She's wrote, the Man 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



81 



Jast now I\e ta'cn the fit o' rhyme, 
, My barmie uoddle's working prime, 
My faucy yerkit it up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon: 
Ha« 7* a leisure-moment's time 

To hear what's comin' ? 

tfjue rhyme a neighbour's name to lash; 
fiome rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash; 
Rome rhyme to court the countra clash, 

An' raise a din ; 
For me, an aim I never fash; 

I rhyme for fun. 

The sjar that rules my luckless lot, 

Has fated me the russet coat, 

All' damn'd my fortune to the groat ; 

But in requit, 
Has blest me with a random shot 

0' countra wit. 

This whilxi my notion's ta'en a sklent, 
To try my fate in guid black prent; 
But still the mair I'm that way bent. 

Something cries " Hooliel 
I red vou, honest man, tak tent ! 

Ye'll shaw your folly. 

•< There s ivhey poets much your betters, 
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors, 

A' -future ages: 
Now moths deform in shapeless tatters. 

Their unknown pages. ' 

Then farewell hopes o' laurel-boughs, 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Ave whistling thrang, 
An' teach the lanely heights an' howes 

My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, with ventless heed 
How never-halting moments speed, 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread ; 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead, 

Forgot and gone! 

But why o' death begin a tale? 

Just now we're living sound and hale. 

Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave care o'er side ! 
^i large, before enjoyment's gale, 

Let's tak the tide. 



This life, sae far's I understand. 

Is a' enchanted fairy land. 

Where pleasure is the magic wand. 

That, wieldei right, 
Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand. 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic wand then let us wield ; 
For, ance that five-an'-forty's ?pee. i 
See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wriixjd'd face, 
Comes hostin'^ hirplln', owre the field, 

Wi' creepin' pace. 

When ance life's day draws near the gloa>1ain^ 
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin' ; 
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin'. 

An' social noise ; 
Au' fareweel dear, deluding woman ! 

The joy of joys' 

Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning I 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away. 
Like school-boys, at th' expected warning, 

To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier. 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 

Among the leaves ; 
And tho' the puny wound appear. 

Short while it grievea 

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot. 

For which they never toil'd nor swat ; 

They drink the sweet and eat the fat. 

But care or pain ; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim some Fortune chase; 
Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the raoe. 

And seize the prey ; 
Then cannie, in some cozie place. 

They close the day 

And others, like your humble servan'. 
Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observin' 
To right or left, eternal swervin', 

They zig-zag on ; 
'Till curst with age, obscure an' starvin', 

They aften groan. 



ss 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining — 


Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise ; 


But trace with peevish, poor complaining ! 


Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 


[s fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 


The hairum-scarum, ram-stam boys, 


E'en let her gang! 


The rattling squad: 


Beneath what light she has remaining, 


I see you upward cast your eyes — 


Let's sing our sang. 


Ye ken the road — 


Mx pen I here fling to the door, 


Whilst I— but I shall baud me there— 


Inl kueel, " Ye Pow'rs," and warm implore, 


Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — 


♦* Tho' I shovild wander terra e'er, 


Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 


In all her clime's, 


But quat my sang. 


Grant me but this, I ask no more, 


Content wi' you to mak a pair, 


Ay rowth o' rhymes. 


Whare'er I gang. 



* Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds. 
Till icicles hing frae their beards ; 
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards. 

And maids of honour ! 
And yill an' whisky gie to cairds, 

Until they sconner. 

"A title, Dempster merits it; 

A garter gie to Willie Pitt ; 

Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 

In cent, per cent. 
But give me real, sterling wit, 

And I'm content. , 

"While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face, 
As lang's the muses dimia fail 

To say the grace." 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may ; 
Bworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, 

I rhyme away. 

ye douce folk, that live by rule. 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, 
3ompar'd wi' you — fool ! fool ! fool ! 

How much unlike I 
Four hearts are just a standing pool, 

Your lives a dyke ' 

l^die hair-brain' d, sentimental traces, 
tn your unletter'd nameless faces ! 
tn arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray, 
Put gravisslmo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 



XXIV. 

THE VISION. 

DUAN FIRST.! 



[The Vision and the Briggs of Ayr, are said by Jefiiej 
to be y the only pieces bv Burns vtrhich can be clas«e<l 
under the head of pure fiction:" but Tarn o' Shaatei 
and twenty other of his compositions have an equa. 
right to be classed with works of ficii.ir The eiHt ,« 
of this poem published at Kilm.iruock, differs in some 
particulars from the edition which followed in Edin- 
burgh. The maiden whose foot was so handsome as to 
match that of Coila, was a Bess at first, but old affection 
triumphed, and Jean, for whom the honour was from 
the first designed, regained her place. The robe of 
Coila, too, was expanded, so. far indeed that she go6 
more cloth than she could well carry.] 

The sun had clos'd the winter day. 
The curlers quat their roaring play, 
An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green, 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 

The thresher's weary flingin'-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me ; 
And when the day had clos'd his e'e 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek. 
That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 

The auld clay biggin' ; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin'. 

1 Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisioia 
of a digressive poem. See his " Cath-Loda," vol. u. Jf 
Macpherson's translation. 



OF ROBEKT BUltNS. 8» 


All in this mottie, misty clime, 


And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 


I backward mused on wastet time, 


Could only peer it ; 


How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 


Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 


An' done nae thing, 


Nane else came near it 


But stringin' blethers up in rhynie. 




For fools to sing. 


Her mantle large, of greenish hue, 




My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 


Had I to guid advice but harkit. 


Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threi 


I might, by this hae led a market, 


A lustre grand ; 


Or strutted in a bank an' clarkit 


And seem'd to my astonish'd view. 


My cash-account: 


A well-known land 


While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit 




Is a' th' amount. 


Here, rivers in the sea were lost ; 




There, mountains to the skies were tost : 


I started, mutt'ring, blockhead! coof^ 


Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, 


And heav'd on high my waukit loof. 


With surging foam ; 


To swear by a' yon starry roof, • 


There, distant shone Art's lofty boast. 


Or some rash aith. 


The lordly dome. 


That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof 




Till my last breath— 


Here, Doon pour'd down hisfar-fetch'd floods 




There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : 


When, click ! the string the snick did draw : 


Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, 


And, jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 


On to the shore ; 


An' by my ingle-lowe I saw. 


And many a lesser torrent scuds. 


Now bleezin' bright, 


With seeming roar 


A tight outlandish hizzie, braw 




Come full in sight. 


Low, in a sandy valley spread, 




An ancient borough rear'd her head ; 


Fe need na doubt, I held my wisht ; 


Still, as in Scottish story read. 


The infant aith, half-form' d, was crusht; 


She boasts a race. 


I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht 


To ev'ry nobler virtue bred. 


In some wild glen; 


And polish' d grace 


When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, 


, 


And stepped ben. 


By stately tow'r, or palace fair, 




Or ruins pendent in the air, 


Greon, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 


Bold stems of heroes, here and ther«», 


Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows, 


I could iiscern ; 


I took her for some Scottish Muse, 


Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare. 


By that same token ; 


With feature stern. 


An' come to stop those reckless vows. 




Wou'd soon be broken. 


My heart did glowing transport feel, 




To see a race' heroic wheel. 


A " hair-brain'd, sentimental trace" 


And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 


Was strongly marked in her face ; 


In sturdy blows ; 


A wildly-witty, rustic grace 


While back-recoiling seem'd to reel 


Shone full upon her : 


Their southron foes. 


tier aj ' ev'u turn'd on empty space, 




Beam'd keen with honour. 


His Country's Saviour,^ mark him well * 




Bold Richardton's3 heroic swell ; 


Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 


The chief on Sark"* who glorious fell, 


'Till half a leg was scrimply seen : 


In high command; 


'The Walliices. * 


mand under Douglas, Earl of Orinond, at the famou 


«Sir\VilIi;irn Wallace. 


battle on the banks of Sank, fouglit anno 1448. Tiia 


' Adam VVallnce, nf Rirharfitf.n. con5?in to the immor- 


glorious victory was principally owii>', to the judicioui 


^ preserver of Scottish independenoe. 


conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant laird of Craigie, 


Vallace. Lai-d Ok" Craigie, who was second in com- 


who died of his wounds alter the action 



ftO THE POETICAL WORKS 


Ar d He whom ruthless fates expel 


Who, all beneath his high command, 


His native land. 


Harmoniously, 




As arts or arms they understand, 


There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shade' 


Their labours ply. 


Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 




I mark'd a martial race portray'd 


" They Scotia's race among them shaie ; 


In colours strong ; 


Some fire the soldier on to dare; 


Bold, soldi er-featur'd, undismay'd 


Some rouse the patriot up to bare 


They strode alongi 


Corruption's heart, 




Some teach the bard, a darling care. 


Thro' many a wild romantic grove,^ 


The tuneful art. 


Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove, 




• (Fit haunts for friendship or for love,) 

In musing mood, 
An aged judge, I saw him rove, 


" 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore. 
They, ardent, kindling spirits, pour ; 
Or 'mid the venal senate's roar. 


Dispensing good. 


They, sightless, stand. 


With deep-struck, reverential awe,3 


To mend the honest patriot-lore. 


The learned sire and son I saw. 


And grace the hand 


To Nature's God and Nature's law 




They gave their lore. 
This, all its source and end to draw ; 


** And when the bard, or hoary sage, 


Charm or instruct the future age. 


That, to adore. 


They bind the wild, poetic rage 




In energy. 


Brydone's brave ward"* I well could spy, 


Or point the inconclusive page 


Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; 


Full on the eye. 


Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, 




To hand him on, 


** Hence Fullarton, the brave and young; 


Where many a Patriot-name on high 


Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue; 


And hero shone. 


Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 




His ' Minstrel' lays ; 




Or tore, with noble ardour stung. 






The sceptic's bays. 


DUAN SECOND. 




With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 


" To lower orders are assign'd 


I view'd the heavenly-seeming fair; 


The humbler ranks of human-kind, 


A whisp'ring throb did witness bear 


The rustic bard, the lab'ring hind. 


Of kindred sweet, 


The artisan ; 


When with an elder sister's air 


All choose, as various they're inclin'd 


She did me greet. 


The various man. 


"All hail! My own inspired bard! 


" When yellow waves the heavy grain, 


m me thy native Muse regard ! 


The threat' nirg storm some, strongly, rein ; 


Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 


Some teach to meliorate the plain. 


Thus poorly low I 


With tillage-skill ; 


1 somt to give thee such reward 


And some instruct the shepherd-train, 


As we bestow. 


Ely the o'er the :.ll. 


'^Know, the great genius of this land, 


" Some hint the lover's harmless wile; 


Has many a light aerial band, 


Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 


1 Coilus, king of the Picts, from whom the district of 


(Sir Thomas Miller of Glenlee, afterwards President o* 


Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition 


the Court of Session.) 


lays, near the family seat of the Montgomeries of Coils- 


3 Catrine, the seat of Professor Dugald Stewa t. 


Eeld, vvliere his burial-place is still shown. 


4 Colonel Fullarton. 


'Barskimming, the seat of the late Lord Justice-Clerk 





Seme soothe the lab'rer's weary toil, 
For humble gains, 

And make his cottage-scenes beguile 
His cares and pains. 

«' Some, bounded to a district-space, 
Explore at large man's infant race, 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic bard: 
Aal careful note each op'ning grace, 

A guide and guard. 

** Of these am I — Coila my name ; 
And this district as mine I claim. 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fami, 

Held ruling pow'r : 
I mark'd thy embryo-tuneful flame, 

Thy natal ht^ur. 

** With future hope, I oft would gaze, 

Fond, on thy little early ways. 

Thy rudely carroll'd, chiming phrase, 

In uncouth rhymes, 
Fir'd at the simple, artless lays 

Of other times. 

♦• 1 saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove through the sky, 
I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

•' Or when the deep green-mantled earth 
Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
^ saw thee eye the general mirth 

With boundless love. 

"When npen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Called forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their evening joys. 

And lonely stalk, 
1 '•^nt thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

'* When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along. 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 

Th' adored Name 
1 taught *het how to pour in song. 

To soothe thy flame. 



" I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray. 

By passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from Heaveai, 

**I taught thy manners-painting strains. 
The loves, the ways of simple swains, 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends ; 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains. 

Become thy friends. 

** Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow J 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe. 

With Shenstone's art; 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow. 

Warm on the heart. 

"Yet, all beneath the unnvall'd rose, 

Thu lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 

ILo" large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade, 
let green the juicy hawthorn grows, 

Adown the glade 

*' Then never murmur nor repine ; 
S trive in thy humble sphere to shme • 
Ai»d, trust me, not Potosi's mine. 

Nor king's regard, 
^Um give a bliss o'ermatching thin* , 

A rustic bard. 

•*To give my counsels all in one, 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan , 
Preserve the dignity of man, 

V/ith soul erect , 
And trust, the universal plan 

Will all protec* 

"And wear thou this," — she solrr-D saii 
And bound the boHy round my h<jud: 
The polish'd leaves and berries red 

Did rustling play^ 
And like a pass».-.g thought, she fle I 

In light dwa^ 



92 



THE POETICAL WOUKS 



XXV. 

HALLOWEEN.' 

** yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charmj than all the gloss of art." 
Goldsmith. 

[This Poem contains a lively aftd striking picture of 
lome of the superstitious observances of old Scotland : 
an Hallowaen the-desire to look into futurity was once 
al. but universal in the north; and the charms and spells 
which Burns describes, form but a portion of thoss 
•mployed to enable the peasantry to have a peep up the 
dark vista of the future. The scene is laid on the romantic 
shores of Ayr, at a farmer's fireside, and the actors in the 
rustic drama are the wliole household, including super- 
numerary reapers and bandsmen about to be discharged 
from the engagements of harvest. " I never can help 
regarding this," says James Hogg, " as rather a trivial 
noem!"] 

Upon that night, when fairies light ' 

On Cassilis Downans^ dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance ; 
Or for Colean the rout is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams ; 
There, up the Cove,^ to stray an' rove 

Amang the rocks an' streams 

To sport that night. 

Amang the bonnie winding banks 

Where Doon rins, wimplin', clear, 
Where Bruce"* ance rul'd the martial ranks. 

An' shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks, 

Together did convene, 
To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, 

An' hand their Halloween 

Fu' blythe that night. 

i Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and 
otner mischief-making beings are all abroad on their 
baneful midnight errands: particularly those aerial people, 
the Fairies, are said on that night to hold a grand auni- 
reraary. 

2 Certain ittle, romantic, rocky green hills; :n the 
Raiglibourhnod of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis. 

8 A noted cavern near Colean-house, called the Cove 
of Colean which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed 
la country story foi being a favourite haunt of fairies. 

4 Thu. famous family of that name, the ancestors of 
Robert the great deliverer of his country, were Earls 
of Cnrrick. 

5 The first cer3mony of Halloween is, pulling each a 
itock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand-in-hand, 
^t-ith eyes shut, and pull tlie first they meet with: its 
being big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of 
Ihe s'ze and shape of the grand object of all their spells— 
Iha b isband or wife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the 



The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine; 
Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe, 

Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin , 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten. 
Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs, 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin* 

Whiles fast at night 

Then, first and foremost, thro' the kail, 

Their stocks^ maun a' be sought ance; 
They steek their een, an' graip an' wale. 

For muckle anes an' straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, 

An' wander'd through the bow-kail. 
An' pou't, for want o' better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, 

They roar an' cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee-things, todlin', rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; 
An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' cannie care, they've placed them 
To lie that night. 

The lasses staw frae mang them a' 

To pou their stalks o' corn ;^ 
But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, 

Behint the muckle thorn : 
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; 

Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 

When kiuttlin' in the fause-house'^ 

Wi' him that night. 

root, that is tocher, or fortune; and the taste of the custoc, 
that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural 
temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, or, to giv« 
them their ordinary appellation, the runts^ are piTiced 
somewhere above the head of the door; and the Christiaa 
names of the people wnom chance brings into the hcuee 
are, according to the priority of placing the runts, th« 
names in question. 

6 They go to the barn-yard, and pull each at three 
several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wanta 
the top-pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, 
the party in question will come to the marriage-bed any- 
thing but a maid. 

7 When the corn is in a doubtful sttite, by being toe 
green or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, 
&c., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an open 
ing in the side which is fii'-est exposed to the wind: thii 
he calls a fause-house. 



OF KOBEKT BURNS. 



gn 



The inld guidwife's weel hoordet nits^ 

Are round an' round divided, 
An' monie lads' an' lasses' fates 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle, couthie, side by side, 

An' burn thegither trimly ; 
Some start awa' wi' saucy pride, 

Ani jump out-owre the chimlie 

Fu' high that night. 

Jean slips in twa wi' tenlie e'e ; 

Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, an' this is me, 

She says in to hersel' : 
He bleez'd owre her, an' she owre him, 

As they wad never mair part; 
'Till, fuff : he started up the lum, 

An' Jean had e'en a sair heart 

To see't that night. 

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt. 

Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; 
An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, 

To be compar'd to Willie ; 
Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, 

An' her ain fit it brunt it ; 
While Willie lap, and swoor, by jing, 

'Twas just the way he wanted 

To be that night. 

Nell had the fause-house in her min', 

She pits hersel an' Rob in ; 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join, 

'Till white in ase they're sobbin' ; 
Nell's heart was dancin' at the view, 

She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't: 
Rob, stowlins, prie'd her bonie mou', 

Fu' cozie in the neuk for't. 

Unseen that night. 

Put Merran sat behint their backs. 
Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 

Hhe lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, 
And slips out by hersel' : 

She through the yard the nearest taks, 
An' to the kiln she goes then, 



1 Burning the nuts is a famous charm. They name the 
•ao and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them iu 
the fire, ami according as they burn quietly together, or 
Btart from beside one another, the course and issue of the 
courtship will be. 

2 M'hoever would, with success, try this spell, must 
itrictly observe these directions: Steal out, all alone, to 
.ne tiln, and, darkling, throw into the pot a 3lue of blue 
Tarn; vdr.d it .n a clue off the old one; and towards the 



An' darklins? graipit for the banks. 
And in the blue-clue^ throws then, 

Right fear't tLat aight 

An' ay she win't, an' ay she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaukin' ; 
'Till something held within the pat, 

Guid L — d ! but she was quaukin' ' 
But whether 'twas the Deil himsel', 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She did na wait on talkin' 

To spier that night. 

Wee Jenny to her grannie says, 

"Will ye go wi' me, graunie! 
I'll eat the apples at the glass, 

I gat frae uncle Johnnie :" 
She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin', 
She notic't na, an aizle brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' 'that nipht 

" Ye little skelpie-limmer's face I 

I daur you try sic sportin', 
As seek the foul Thief onie place, 

For him to spae your fortune : 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 

Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 
For monie a ane has gotten a fright, 

An' liv'd an' died deleeret 

On sic a night 

" Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, 

I mind't as weel's yestreen, 
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

I was na past fifteen : 
The simmer had been cauld an' wat. 

An' stuff was unco green ; 
An' ay a rantin' kirn we gat. 

An' just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 

*'Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graeu, 
A clever, sturdy fellow : 

latter end, sometliing will hold the th'-e-i^ . :-emacd " wha 
bauds?" I.e. who holds? an answe '.w ^« returned fraiB 
the kiln-pot, naming the Christian tnd surn.ime of yoaj 
future si)ouse. 

3 Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass; eat 
an apple before it, find some traditions say, you should 
comb your hair nil the time ; the face of your conjugaJ 
companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peepiui 
over your shoulder. 



)4 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



He's sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

That liv'd in Achmacalla : 
He gat hemp-seed,' Iminditweel, 

And he made unco light o't ; 
But monie a day was by himsel', 

He was sae sairly frighted 

That vera night." 

then up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, 

An' he swoor by his conscience. 
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; 

For it was a' but nonsense ; 
The auld guidman raught down the pock, 

An' out a' handfu' gied him ; 
Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, 

Sometime when nae ane see'd him, 

An' try't that DJght. 

He marches thro' amang the stacks, 

Tho' he was something sturtin ; 
The graip he for a harrow taks. 

An' haurls at his curpin ; 
An' ev'ry now an' then he says, 

" Hemp-seed, I saw thee, 
An' her that is to be my lass, 

Come after me, an' draw thee 

As fast that night." 

He whistl'd up Lord Lennox' march, 

To keep his courage cheery; 
Altho' his hair began to arch. 

He was sae fiey'd an' eerie ; 
'Till presently he hears a squeak. 

An' then a grane an' gruntle ; 
He by his shouther gae a keek, 

An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle 

Out-owre that night. 

He roar'd a horrid murder-shout. 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
An' young an' auld cam rinnin' out, 

An' hear the sad narration ; 



^teoi out anperceived, and sow a handful of nemp- 
■^i'^d, hnrrowing it with anything you can conveniently 

\ f after you. Repeat, now and then, "Hemp-seed, I 
iut,^ .leej hemp-seed, 1 saw thee; and him (or her) that 
18 ) le my true love, come after me and pou thee." 
L)ok over your left shoulder, and you will see theappear- 
xnce of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling 
.loiup. Some traditions say, " Come after me, ard shaw 
thee,"' tliat is, show thyself; in which case it simply 
ippears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, *' Come 
After me, and harrow thee." 

2.This charm must likewise be performed, unperceived, 
»nd aJone. You go to the barn, and open both doors, 
taku^ them off the hinges, if possible; for there is danger 



He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 

Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 
'Till, stop! she trotted thro' them a'; 

An' wha was it but Grumphie 

Asteer that light I 

Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen, 

To win three wechts o' jiaething ;* 
But for to meet the deil her lane, 

She pat but little faith in : 
She gies the herd a pickle nits, 

An' twa red cheekit apples. 
To watch, while for the barn she sets, 

In hopes to see Tam Kipples 

That vera nigbt. 

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, 

An' owre the threshold ventures ; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca', 

Syne bauldly in she enters : 
A ratton rattled up the wa', 

An' she cried, L — d preserve her I 
An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a', 

An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour, 

Fu' fast that night. 

They hoy't out Will, wi sair advice , 

They hecht him some fine braw ane , 
It chanc'd the stack he faddom't thrice,* 

Was timmer-propt for thrawin' ; 
He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak, 

For some black, grousome carlin ; 
An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke, 

'Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' 

Aff's nieves that night 

A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As canty as a kittlin ; 
But, och ! that night, amang the shaws. 

She got a fearfu' settlin' ', 
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, 

An' owre the hill gaed scrievin, 

that the being about to appear may shut the clocs afei 
do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used 
in winnowing the corn, which, in our country dialect, w« 
call a wecht ; and go through all the attituJes of letting 
down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times ; and 
the third time, an apparition will pass through tli€ 
barn, in at the windy door, and out at the other, having 
both the figure in question, and the appearance or retimn 
marking the employment or station in life. 

3 Take an opportunity of going unnoticed, to a beaa 
stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fathoo 
of the last time, you wil' catch in your arms the appeal 
ance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



9& 



Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn,' 
Tc dip her left sark-sleeve in, 

Was bent that night. 

>Vhjles owre a linn the burnie plays, 

As through the glen it wimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays, 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Wnjle3 glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

Amang the brackens on the brae. 

Between her an' the moon, 
The deil, or else an outler quey, 

Gat up an' gae a croon : 
Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ! 

Near lav'rock-height she jumpit. 
But mist a fit, an' in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

in order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The luggies three^ are ranged, 
And ev'ry time great care is ta'en. 

To see them duly changed : 
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin Mar's-year did desire. 
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice, 

lie heav'd them on the fire 

In wrath that night. 

Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks, 

I wat they did na weary ; 
An' uuco tales, an' funnie jokes. 

Their sports were cheap an' cheery; 
rill butter' d so'ns3 wi' fragrant lunt, 

S Jt a' their gabs a-steerin' ; 
Byne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 

Tbej parted afF careerin' 

Fu' blythe that night. 



\ «« go OQt, one or more, for this is a social spell, to 
I south running spring or rivulet, where " three lairds' 
ands meet," nnd dip your left sliirt-sleeve. Go to bed 
r sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to 
iry. Lie awake: and, some time near midnight, an 
dppuriti'in having tiie exact figure of the grand object in 
guestion, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the 

ther si'le of it. 

2 Take tl ree dishes : put clem water in one, foul water 
1 another, and leave the third empty ; lili -dfold a oerson 



XXVI. 

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 

A DIRGE. 

[The origin of this fine poem is alluded tr f ir P ».■ z.fi is 
one of his letters to Mrs. Dunlop : '•• I hai am oid ^^'"ir^ 
uncle with wliom my motlier lived in her girlish year*: 
the good old man was iong blind ere he died, during which 
time his highest enjoyment was to sit and cry, while my 
mother would sing the simple old song of ' The Life and 
Age of Man.' " From that truly venerable woman, long 
after the death of her distinguished son, Cromek, in col- 
lecting the Reliques, obtained a copy by recitation of thf 
older strain. Tliough the tone and sentiment coincide 
closely with " Man was made to Mourn," I agree with 
Lockhart, tiiat Burns wrote it in obedience to his own 
habitual feelings.] 

When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare, 
One ev'ning as I wandered forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spy'd a man whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow'd o'er with years. 

And hoary was his hair. 

*' Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ?'* 

Began the rev'rend sage ; 
*' Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain. 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ' 
Or haply, prest with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me to mourn 

The miseries of man. 

" The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out-spreading far and wide, 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride : 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return. 
And ev'ry time has added proofs. 

That man was made to mourn 

** man ! while in thy early yeaie, 
How prodigal of time ! 

and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranf M 
he (or she) dips tlie left hand : if by chance in the clcaj 
water, the future husbnnd o.r wife will mme to the ba 
of matrimony a maid ; if in the foul, .-i widow; if in tn» 
empty dish, it foretells, with equal cerlainty, no marriagfl 
at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the 
arrangement of tlie dishes is alferei,'. 

3 Sowens, with I utter insteid of -riiik t;i them, isalvavB 
the Halloween svppei 



96 



THE POETICAL WOE KS 



Misspending all thy precious hours, 


This partial view of human-kind 


Thy glorious youthful prime ! 


Is surely not the best ! 


Alternate follies take the sway ; 


The poor, oppressed, honest man 


Licentious passions burn ; 


Had never, sure, been born. 


Wh'ch tenfold force gives nature's law 


Had there not been some recompense 


That man was made to mourn. 


To comfort those that mourn ! 


*• Look not alone on youthful prime, 


** Death ! the poor man's dearest friend— 


Or manhood's active might ; 


The kindest and the best ! 


Man then is useful to his kind. 


Welcome the hour, my aged limbfe 


Supported in his right : 


Are laid with thee at rest ! 


But see him on the edge of life, 


The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 


"With cares and sorrows worn; 


From pomp and pleasure torn ! 


Then age and want — oh ! ill-match' d pair i — 


But, oh ! a blest relief to those 


Show man was made to mourn. 


That weary -laden mourn." 


*• A few seem favourites of fate, 




In pleasure's lap carest : 




Yet, think not all the rich and great 




Are likewise truly blest. 
But, oh ! what crowds in every land, 




XXVII. 


All wretched and forlorn ! 


TO EUIN. 


Thro' weary life this lesson learn — 




That man was made to mourn. 


[" I have been," says Burns, in his common-placu 




book, "taking a peep throijgh, as Young finely says, 




* The dark postern of time long elapsed.' 'Twas a 


*' Many and sharp the num'rous ills 


rueful prospect ! What a tissue of tho>jghtlessness, 


Inwoven with our frame ! 


weakness, and folly ! my life reminded me of a ruined 


More pointed still we make ourselves, 


temple. Wliat strength, what proportion in some parfs 


Regret, remorse, and shame ! 


what unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in others !" 
Th« fragment, To Ruin, seems to have had its origin iv 


And man, whose heaven-erected face 


moments such as these. J 


The smiles of love adorn, 


I. 


Man's inhumanity to man 


Makes countless thousands mourn I 


All hail ! inexorable lord ! 




At whose destruction-breathing word. 


"See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight. 


The mightiest empires fall ! 


So abject, mean, and vile. 


Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, 


Who begs a brother of the earth 


The ministers of grief and pain. 


To give him leave to toil ; 


A sullen welcome, all ! 


And see his lordly fellow-worm 


With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye. 


The poor petition spurn, 


I see each aimed dart ; 


Unmindful, though a weeping wife 


For one has cut my dearest tie. 


And helpless offspring mourn. 


And quivers in my heart. 




Then low'ring and pouring, 


'«If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave — 


The storm no more I dread ; 


By NatiRre's law design'd — 


Though thick'ning and black'ning, 


Why was an independent wish 


Round my devoted head. 


E'er planted in my mind ? 




If not, why am I subject to 


II. 


His cruelty or scorn ? 


And thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'dl, 


Or why has man the will and power 


While life a pleasure can afford, 


To make his fellow mourn? 


Oh! hear a wretch's prayer ! 




No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; 


** Yet, let not this too much, my son, 


I court, I beg thy friendly aid. 


Disturb thy youthful breast ; 


To close this scene of care I 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



9: 



flnh.en shall my 30ul, in silent peace, 

Resign life's joyless day; 
My weary hearf, its throbbings cease, 
Cold mould'i'ing in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more, 
' To stain my lifeless face ; 
"^Unclasped, and grasped 
Within t?iv cold embrace I 



xxvin. 



TO 

JOHNGOUDIE OF KILMARNOCK. 

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. 

fThis burn)*/ commentary, by Burns, on the Essays 
•f Goudie it t'lO Macgill controversy, was first published 
by Stewart, with the Jolly Beggars, in 1801 ; it is akin in 
life and spirit to Holy AVillie's Prayer ; and may be cited 
M a san.ple of the wit and the force which the poet 
-»^')ught ^o the great, but now forgotten, controversy of 

^ West.] 

Goudie ! terror of the Whigs, 

Dread of black coats and rev'rena wigs, 

Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, 

Girnin', ^Coks back, 
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick. 

Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition, 

Waes me ! she's in a sad condition : 

Fie ! bring Black Jock, her state physician, 

To see her water : 
A.las ! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 

Aild Orthodoxy lang did grapple. 
But now she's got an unco ripple ; 
Haste, gje her name up i' the chapel, 

Nigh unto death ; 
See, ho-y she fetches at the thrapple. 

An' gasps for breath. 

Enthusiasm's past redemption, 

Gacn in a gallopin' consumption, 

Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption, 

Will ever mend her. 
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption 

Death soon will end her. 

'Tis you and Taylor' are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief, 

I Dr. Taylor, of Norwic . 



But gin the Lord's ain focks gat leave, 
A toom tar-barrel. 

An' twa red peats wad send relief, 

An' end the quarrel 



XXIX. 

T« 

J. L APR AIR. 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. 
April 1st, 1785. 

(first epistle.) , 

[" The epistle to John Lapraik," says Gilbert Iturns, 
" was produced exactly on the occasion described by th« 
author. Rocking is a term derived from primi :ive times, 
when our country-women employed tlieir spare hours in 
spinning on the roke or distaff. This simple instrument 
is a very portable one; and well fitted to the social incli 
nation of meeting in a neighbour's house ; hence the 
phrase of going a rocking, or with the rbke. As th€ 
coifiiexion the phrase had with the implement was for 
gotten when the roke gave place to the spinnicg -wheel 
the phrase came to be used by both sexes on social ocza. 
Biohs, and men talk of going with their rokes as well m 
women."] 

While briers an' woodbines budding green 
An' paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en. 
An' morning poussie whidden seen. 

Inspire my muse. 
This freedom in an unknown frien' 

I pray excuse. 

On Fasten-een we had a rockin'. 

To ca' the crack and weave our stockin* , 

And there was muckle fun an' jokin', 

• Ye need na doubt ; 

At length we had a hearty yokin' 
At sang about. 

There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife ; 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the life. 

I've scarce heard aught describ'd sae weei 
What gen'rous manly bosoms feel. 
Thought I, *' Can this be Pope or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark ?" 
They told me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About Muirkirk 



»8 THE POFTTi 


CAh ^VOKKS 


It pat me fidgin-fain to hoar't, 


Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire ! 


And sae about him there I spier' t, 


That's a' the learning I desire ; 


Then a' that ken't him round declar'd 


Then though I drudge thro' dub an' mir« 


He had injine, 


At pleugn or cart. 


That, nai o excell'd it, few cam near't, 


My muse, though hamely in attire, 


It was sae fine 


May touch the heaTt. 


Thit, set him to a pint of ale, 


for a spunk o' Allan's glee, 


Ao' either douce or merry tale, 


Or Fergusson's, the bauld and siee, 


Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel', 


Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, 


Or witty catches, 


If I can hit it ! 


"lyteen. Inverness and Tiviotdale, 


That would be lear eneugh for me. 


He had few matches. 


If I could get it 


Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, 


Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow. 


Tho' 1 should pawn my pleugh and graith, 


Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few. 


1 Or cUe a cadger pownie's death 


Yet, if your catalogue be fou. 


1 At some dyke-back, 


I'sv. no insist, 


A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith 


But gif ye want ae friend that's true — 


To hear your crack. 


I'm on your list. 


Bdt, first an' foremost, I should tell, 


I winna blaw about mysel ; 


Amaist as soon as I could spell, 


As ill I like my fauts to tell ; 


I to the crambo-jingle fell, • 


But friends an' folk that wish me well. 


Tho' rude an' rough, 


They sometimes rocse me 


Yet crooning to a body's sel', 


Tho' I maun own, as monie still 


Does weel eneugh. 


As far abuse me. 


I am nae poet in a sense. 


There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me. 


But just a rhymer, like, by chance, 


I like the lasses — Gude forgie me ! 


An' hae to learning nae pretence, 


For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, 


Yet what the matter? 


At dance or fair ; 


Whene'er my Muse does on me glance. 


May be some ither thing they gie me 


I jingle at her. 


They weel can spare 


four critic-folk may cock their nose, 


But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair ; 


And say, " How can you e'er propose. 


I should be proud to meet you there ! 


You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose. 


We'se gie ae night's discharge to care. 


To mak a sang?" 


If we forgather, 


But; by youi leaves, my learned foes, 


An' hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware 


Ye're may-be wrang. 


Wi' ane anither. 


Wliat s a' your jargon o' your schools. 


The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 


r )ur Latin names for horns an' stools ; 


An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water , 


[f bonest nature made you fools. 


Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter^ 


What sairs your grammars ? 


To cheer our heart ; 


Yc'd better taen up spades and shools. 


An' faith, we'se be acquainted better. 


Or knappin-hammers. 


Before we part. 


A set 0- dull, conceited hashes. 


Awa, ye selfish, warly race. 


Confuse their brains in college classes ! 


W ha think that havins, sense, an' grace. 


They gang in stirks and come out asses. 


Ev'n love an' friendship, should give plaet 


Plain truth to speak ; 


To catch-the-plack < 


in' fyne they think to climb Parnassus 


I dinra like to see your face. 


By dint o' Greek! 


Nor hear your cracfc. 



OF ROBEUT BURNS. 



9a 



But ye ■whoiT' soda, pleasure charms, 


Her dowff excuses pat me mad : 


Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 


"Conscience," says I, "ye thowless jadl 


Who hold your being on the terms, 


I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud. 


"Each aid the others," 


This vera night 


f'ome to my bowl, come to my arms. 


So dinna ye affront your trade, 


My friends, my brothers ! 


But rhyme it right. 


B it, to conclude my lang epistle, 


" Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 


ii Diy auld pen's worn to the grissle ; 


Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes. 


fws lines frae you wad gar me fissle. 


Roose you sae weel for your deserts, 


Who am, most fervent, 


In terms sae friendly, 


tVnile I can either sing or whissle, 


Yet ye'U neglect to show your parts. 


Your friend and servant. 


An' thank him kindly f* 




Sae I gat paper in a blink 




An' down gaed stumpie in the ink i 






Quoth I, " Before I sleep a wink. 




I vow I'll close it ; 


XXX. 


An' if ye winna mak it clink. 


TO 


By Jove I'll prose it I" 


J. LAPRAIK. 


Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 


(second epistle.) 


In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither, 


[The John Lapraik to whom these epistles are addressed 


Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, 


•ived at Dalfram in the neighbourhood of Muirkirk, 


Let time mak proof; 


und was a rustic worsJiipper of the Muse : he unluckily, 


But I shall scribble down some blether 


now ever, involved himself in that Western bubble, the 


Just clean afF-loof. 


Ayr Bank, and consoled himself by composing in his 




Jisrress that song which moved the heart of Burns, 
pejfinning 


My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp 


Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp ; 
Come, kittle up your moorland-harp 

Wi' gleesome touch I 


" When I upon thy bosom lean." 


He afterwards published a volume of verse, of a quality 
ivi ich proved that the inspiration in his song of domestic 


«o row was no settled power of sou. .] 


Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp ; 




She's but a b-tch. 


April 21st, 1785. 




While new-ca'd ky, rowte at the stake, 


She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg. 


An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik, 


Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; 


This hour on e'enin's edge I take 


But, by the L— d, tho' 1 should beg 


To own I'm debtor, 


Wi' lyart pow, 


To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, 


I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, 


For his kind letter. 


As lang's I dow ! 


Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs, 


Now comes the sax an' twentieth 8imn>«» 


Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs. 


I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, 


Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 


Still persecuted by the limmer 


Their ten hours' bite, 


Frae year to year j 


W; awkart muse sair pleads and begs. 


But yet despite the kittle kimmer, 


I would na write. 


I, Rob, am here. 


The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie, 


Do ye envy the city gent, 


She's saft at best, and something lazy^ 


Behint a kist to lie and sklent, 


Quo' she, "Ye ken, we've been sae busy, 


Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. 


This month' an' mair, 


And muckle wame 


That trouth my head is grown right dizzie, 


In some bit brugh to represent 


All' something sair," 


A bailie's name ' 



Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane, 
Wi' ruffl'd sark as' glancing cane, 
Wlia thinks himc^f aae sheep-shank bane, 

But lordly stalks, 
While caps and bonnets aff are taen. 

As by he walks ! 

**0 Thoxi wha gies us each guid gift! 

Oie me o* wit an' sense a lift, 

Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift. 

Thro' Scotland wide ; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, 

In a' their pride !" 

Were this the charter of our state, 
*'0n pain' o' hell be rich an' great," 
Damnation t^^^^ -"rm.^ld ^-» '^ur fata, 

ana r°mead; 
But,, thanks to Heav'n, that's i^>. the gate 
We learn our creed. 

For thus the royal- mandate ran. 
When first the human race began, 
** The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, 

An' none but he 1" 

mandate, glorious and divine ! 
The followers o' the ragged Nine, 
Poor thoughtless devils ! yet may shine 

In glorious light. 
While sordid sons o' Mammon's line 

Are dark as night. 

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, 
Their worthless nievfu' of a soul 
May in some future carcase howl 

The forest's fright; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise. 
To r?ach their native kindred skies. 
Anil sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys, 

In some mild sphere, 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties 

Each passing year I 



XXXJ. 

TO 

J. LAPRAIK 

(third EPISr/iTi; 

[I have heard one of our mosi foisting lijhed Englisk 
poets recite with a sort of ecstasy some of the verses of 
these epistles, and praise the ease of the language aan 
the happiness of the thoughts. He averred, however 
that the poet, when pinched for a word, hesitated not U> 
coin one, and instanced, " tapetless," "ramfeezled," ana 
" forjesket," as intrusions in our dialect. These worcJi 
seem indeed, to some Scotchmen, strange and uncouth, 
but they are true words of the west.] 

Se2?t. ISth, 1785. 
Guid speed an' furder to you, Johnny, 
Guid health, ha^a Jian's. an' weather bonny; 
Now when ye're aickan down fu' canny 

The staff o' bread, 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y 

To clear your head. 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs. 
Nor kick your rickles afF their legs, 
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs 

Like drivin' wrack; 
But may the tapmast grain that wags 

Come to the sack. 

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it. 

But bitter, daudin' showers hae wat it, 

Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' muckle wark, 
An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it, 

Like ony dark. 

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor 
For your braw, namele^'s, dateless letter, 
A ' isin' me for harsh ill nature 

On holy men, 
While deil a hair yoursel' ye're better, 

But mair profane^ 

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells. 
Let's sing about our noble sel's ; 
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To help, or roose us, 
But browster wives an' whiskey stills. 

They are the muses. 

Tour friendship, Sir, I winna quat it 

An' if ye mak' objections at it. 

Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it^ 

An' witness take, 
An' when wi' Usquabae we've wat it 

It winna break 



OF KOBEKT Bl HNS. lin 


But if the beast and branks be spar'd 


Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield, 


Till kye be gaun without the herd, 


The braes o' fame ; 


An' a' the vittel in the yard, 


Or Fergusson, the writer chiel, 


An' theekit right. 


A deathless name. 


I mear your ingle-side to guard 




Ae winter night 


(0 Fergusson ! thy glorious parte 




111 suited law's dry, musty arts 1 


Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae 


My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 


Shall make us baith sae blythe an' witty, 


Ye L'nbrugh gentry 1 


Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, 


The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes 


An' be as canty, 


Wad stow'd his p^Jitxy 1 


As ye were nine year less than thretty, 




Sweet ane an' twenty 1 


Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 


But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast. 
An* now the sin keeks in the west, 
Then I maun rin amang the rest 


Or lasses gie my heart a screed, 


As whiles they're like to be my dcd 
(0 srA r\se^se ') 


An' quat my chanter ; 


I kittle up my rustic reef', 


'Se I subscribe myself in haste. 


It jie" me ease. 


Yours, Rab the Ranter. 


t 




Auld Coila, now, Taav fidge fu' fain, 




She's gotte/i p'^et^ o' her ain, 




Chiels xrh? th^ir chanters winna hain, 






But tune their lays, 




Till ech eg «>/ resound again 


XXXII. 




TO 


Her weel-sung praise. 


WILLIAM SIMPSON, 


I^%(3 'yOet thought her worth his while, 




/o set her name in measur'd stile ; 


OCHILTREE. 






She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle 


[The person to whom this epistle is addressed, ^p-r 


Beside New-Holland, 


lOhoolmaster of Ochiltree, and afterwards of '.ev La- 


Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 


ftark: he was a writer of verses too, lilf nap" more of 


Besouth Magellan. 


ihe poet's comrades; — of vp'-es v^icii "-ose not above 


the barren level of medocrity • " on« of his poems," says 




Chambers, " -yas a lanq^h^uie elegy on the death of the 


Ramsay an' famous p'ergusson 


Emperor Paul." .n nis verses to Burns, under *;he name 
•f a Tailor, there is notliing to laugh at, though they are 


Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon ; 


Jltended to be laughable as well as monitory.] 


Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, 


May, 1785. 


Owre Scotland rings, 


While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Boon, 


I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ; 


Nae body sings. 


Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie; 


The' I maun say't, I wad be silly. 


Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 


An' unco vain. 


Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line ' 


Should I believe, my coaxin' billie. 




But, Willie, set your fit to mine, 


Your flatterin' strain. 




An' cock your, arest, 


But I'se believe ye kindly meant it. 


We'll gar our streams an' burnies shiae 


I sud be laith to think ye hinted 


Up wi' the beet. 


Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 




On my poor Musie ; 


We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, 


Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, 


Her moor's red-brown wi' heather bells. 


I scarce excuse ye. 


Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, 




AVhere glorious Wallad 


My sennes wad be in a creel, 


Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 


Rhou^d 1 but dare a hope to sp^^l. 


Frae southron bil iei. 



102 THR POETICAL WOUKS 


At Wa'llace' name, what Scottish blood 


POSTSCRIPT. 


But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 




Oft have our fearless fathers strode 


My memory's no worth a preen : 


By Wallace' side, 


I had amaist forgotten clean. 


Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, 


Ye bade me write you what they mean, 


Or glorious dy'd. 


By this New Light, 




'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been, 


sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, 


Maist like to fight. 


Wben Untwhites chant amang the buds, 
And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids 
Their loves enjoy 
While thro' the braes the cushat croods 


In days when mankind were but callans, 

At grammfir, logic, an' sic talents. 

They took nae pains their speech to balance, 




Or rules to gie. 


With wailfu' cry ! 


But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans 


Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 


Like you or me. 


When winds rave thro' the naked tree ; 


In thae auld times, they thought the moon, 


Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 


Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon. 


Are hoary gray : 


Wore by degrees, 'till her last roon, 


Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 


Gaed past their dewing, 


Dark'ning the day. 


An' shortly after she was aone, 


Nature ! a' thy shews an' forms 


They gat a new on*. 


To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms I 


This past for certain — undisputed ; 


Whether the summer kindly warms, 


It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 


Wi' life an' light, 


'Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it, 


Or winter howls;, in gusty storms. 


An' ca'd it wrang ; 


The lang, dark night ! 


An' muckle din there was about it. 




Baith loud an' lang. 


Th/5 muse, nae Poet ever fand her, 




'Till by himsel' he learn'd to wander, 


Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the be k, 


Adown some trotting burn's meander, 


Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; 


An' no think lang , 


For 'twas the auld moon turned a neuk. 


sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder 


An' out o' sight, 


A heart-felt sang ! 


An' backlins-comin', to the leuk, 




She grew mair bright 


The warly race may drudge an' drive. 




Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch an' strive, 


This was deny'd, it was affirm'd ; 


Let me fair Nature's face descrive. 


The herds an' hissels were alarm'd : 


And I, wi' pleasure, 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 


The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd and storm'd 


That beardless ladiics 


Bum owre their treasure 


Should think they bettei were inform'd 




Than their aald dadJi 4 


Fareweel, my " rhyme-composing brither !" 


Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 


We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither: 


Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks, 


Ntw let us lay our heads thegither, 


An' monie a fallow gat his licks. 


In love fraternal ; 


Wi' hearty crunt; 


May envy wallop in a tether. 


An' some, to learn them for tfieir tricks. 


Black fiend, infernal ! 


Were hang'd ♦«' bru»i 


While Highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes ; 


This game was play'd in monie lands, 


While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies ; 


An' Auld Light caddies bure sic hands. 


While ferra firma, on her axes 


That, faith, the youngsters took the sands 


Diurnal turns, 


Wi' nimble shanks. 


Count on n friend, in faith an' practice, 


'Till lairds forbade, by strict commands^ 


In RoBERi Bua\^s. 


Sic bMiidy pranks. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



IJT 



Bat New Light herds gat sic a cowe, 
i'oVr thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, 
Till aow amaiat on every knowe, 

Ye'll find ane plac'd ; 
At' 'ome their New Light fair avow, 

Just quite barefac'd. 

^ae loubt the Auld Light flocks are bie<»«Ji* , 
5hei*.' zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin' : 
Mjsel', I've even seen them greetin' 

Wi' girnin' spite^ 
To houi tfie moon sae sadly lie'd on 

By word an' writ© 

But shortly they will cowe the loons ; 
Borne Auld Light herds in neibor towns 
Are mind't in things thoy ca' balloons, 

To tak a flig'it, 
An' stay ae month amang the moons 

And see them right. 

Oruid observation they will gie them : 

An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, 

'The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, 

Just i' their pouch. 
An' when the New Light billies see them, 

I think they'll crouch ! 

Bae, ye observe that a' this clatter 

Is naething but a "moonshine matter;" 

&it tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie. 



xxxni. 

ADDRESS 

TO AN 

ILLEGITIMATE CHILD. 

[Tnjs hasty and not very decorous efTusion, was origi- 
tally entitieu 'The Poet's We.come; or, Rab the 
Rn' mer's Address to his Bastard Child." A copy, with 
i/ve TJore softerwd, but less expressive title, was 
•4l:.» 9d by Stewart, in 1801, and is alluded to by 
6ui, * linriseif, in his biographical letter to Moore. 
''Boait,^ Setty," the mother of the " sonsie-sinirking, 
deru-bouj, . Bess," of the Inventory, lived in Largie- 
lide: to su^ -ort this daughter the poet made over the 
Copy ight of his works when he proposed to go to the 
Weg-. Is-i'^fl She lived to be a woman, and to marry 
wne Ji.hn Bia.iop, overseer at Pf)lKemmet, where she died 
■r. Ii^l7. It is s;iid she resembled Burns quite as much as 
»n7 Oi 'he rest of iiis children.] 

TiiGu's welcome, wean, mischanter fa' me, 
Tf ough ^ of the( ' r of thy Tiamray 



Shall ever daunton me, or awe me. 

My sweet wee lady, 

Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me 
Tit-ta or dadly. 

♦I ee image of my bonny Betty, 

1, fatherly, will kiss and daut thee, 

As dear and near my heart I set thee 

Wi' as gude will 
Aft a' the priests had seen me get thee 

That's out o' hell. 

What tho' they ca' me fornicator. 
An' tease my name in kintry clatter ; 
The mair they talk I'm kent the better. 

E'en let them sJ^-t-ah • 
An auld wife's tongue's a feckless mattej 

To gie ane fash. 

Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dim. 

My funny toil is now a' tint. 

Sin' thou came to the warl asklent. 

Which fools may scoflF u 
In my last plack thy part's be in't 

The better ha'f o't 

An' if thou be what I wad hae thee, 
An' tak the counsel I sail gie thee, 
A lovin' father I'll be to thee. 

If thou be spar'd ; 
Thro' a' thy childish yeais I'll e'e thee. 

An' think't weel war'd, 

Gude grant that thou may ay inherit 
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit, 
An' thy poor worthless daddy's spirit. 

Without his failing ; 
'Twill please me mair to hear an' see it 

Than stocket maileos 



XXXIV. 
NATURE'S LAW. 

A POEM HUMBLT INSCRIBED TO Q H. K8(J, 

" Great nature spoke, observant man obeyed." 

Po>» 

[This Poem was written by Barns at Mcssgiei, anu 
" humbly inscribed to Gavin Hamilton, Esq." It is sup- 
posed to allude to his intercourse with Jean A'iri<^iir, 
with the circumstances of wh'ch he seems to have mad4 
many of his comrades acquainted. These verses weri 
well known to many of the adm.rers of the poet, but the) 
remained in manuscript till given to the worjd by Si- 
Harris Nicolas, in Pickering's Aldine Edition of th» 
British Poets.] 

Let other heroes boast their sc^-rs. 
The marks of sturt and strife ; 



104 THE POETICAL WORKS 


And other poets sing of wars, 


XXXV. 


The plagues of human Rfe ; 


Shame fa' the fun ; wi' sword and gun 


TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH. 


To slap mankind like lumber ! 


[Poor M'Math was at the period of this epistle ajssiut 


I sing his name, and nobler fame, 


ant to Wodrow, minister of Tarbolton : he was a good 


Wha multiplies our number. 


preacher, a moderate rran in matters of discipline, aal 




an intimate of the Coilsfield Montgomerys. His dtpen 


Great Nature spoke with air benign, 


dent condition depressed his spirits : ho grewdissipj UMi 


' (J? on, ye human race ! 


and finally, it is said, enlisted as a common soldier, i »« 
died in a foreign land.] 


I his lower world I you resign ; 
Be fruitful and increase. 


Sept. 17 th, 17811 


The liquid fire of strong desire 


While at the stock the shearers cow'r . 


I've pour'd it in each bosom ; 


To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r. 


Here, in this hand, does mankind stand, 


Or in gulravage rinnin' scow'r 


And there, is beauty's blossom." 


To pass the time, 




To you I dedicate the hour 


The her^ of these artless strains, 


In idle rhyme. 


A lowly bard was he, 




Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains 


My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet 


With meikle mirth an' glee ; 


On gowi>, an' ban', and douse black bonnet, 


Kind Nature's care had given his share, 


Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 


Large, of the flaming current; 


Lest they should blame her 


And all devout, he never sought 


An' r^^'se their holy thunder on it 


To stem the sacred torrent. 


And anathem her. 


He felt the powerful, high behest. 


I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy. 


Thrill vital through and through ; 


That I, a simple countra bardie, 


iind sought a correspondent breast, 


Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy. 


To give obedience due : 


Wha, if they ken me, 


Propitious Powers screen'd the young flowers^ 


Can easy, wi' a single wordie. 


From mildews of abortion ; 


Lowse hell upon me. 


And lo ! the bard, a great reward, 




Has got a double portion ! 


But I gae mad at their grimaces, 




Their sighin' cantin' grace^proud faces. 


Auld cantie Coil may count the day, 


Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile grac^ 


As annual it returns. 


Their raxin' conscience, 


The third of Libra's equal sway, 


Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces, 


That gave another B[urns], 


Waur nor their nonsense 


With future rhymes, an' other times, 


. 


To emulate his sire ; 


There's Gaun,' miska't waur than a beast, 


To sing auld Coll in nobler style, 


Wha has mair honour in his breast 


With more poetic fire. 


Than mony scores as guid's the priest 




Wha sae abus't him. 


Ve Powers of peace, and peaceful song, 


Afli' may a bard no crack his jest 


Look down with gracious eyes ; 


What way they've use't him 


And bless auld Coila, large and long. 




With multiplying joys: 


See him, the poor man's friend in need, 


Lang may she stand to prop the land, 


The gentleman in word an' deed, 


The flow'r of ancient nations ; 


An' shall his fame an' honour bleed 


4.nd B[urns's] spring, her fame to sing 


By worthless Rkellums. 


Thro' endless generations I 


An' not a muse erect her head 




To cowe the blelltims ' 


- 


Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 



• 

OF ROBERT BURNS. 105 


Pope, had I thy satire's darts 


Sir, in that circle jou are nam'd ; 


To gie the rascals their deserts, . 


Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 


I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts. 


An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd, 


An' tell aloud 


(Which gies you honour,) 


Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts 


Even Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd. 


To cheat the crowd 


An' winning manner 


Gow knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, 


Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, 


Nor am 1 even the thing I cou'd be, 


An' if impertinent I've been. 


l^at twenty times, I rather wou'd be 


Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 


An atheist clean, 


Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye 


Than under gospel colours hid be 


But to his utmost would befriend 


Just for a screen. 


Ought that belang'd ye. 


Ah honest man may like a glass, 
An honest man may like a lass. 


• 




But mean revenge, an' malice fause 




He'll still disdain. 




* n' then cry zeal for gospel laws. 


XXXVI. 


Like some we ken. 


TO A MOUSE, 


They take religion in their mouth ; 


OH TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH 


They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth. 


NOVEMBER, 1785. 


For what? — to gie their malice skouth 


[This beautiful poem was imagined while the poet wai 


On some puir wight, 


holding the plough, on the farm of Mossgiel: the field ia 


\n' hunt him down, o'er right, an' ruth, 


Btill pointed out : and a man called Blane is still living. 


who says he was gaudsman to the bard at the time, an 


To ruin straight. 


chased the mouse with the plough-pettle, for wliich he 




was rebuked by his young master, who inquired what 


All hail, Religion ! maid divine ! 


harm the poor mouse had done him. In the night that 


Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 


followed, Burns awoke his gaudsman, who was in tha 


Who in her rough imperfect line, 


same bed with him, recited the poem as it now stauda 




and said, " What think you of our mouse now ?'^^ 


Thus daurs to name thee ; 




£o stigmatize false friends of thine 


Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, 


Can ne'er defame thee. 


0, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 




Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 


Tho' blotch'd an' foul wi' mony a stain, 
An' far unworthy of thy train, 


Wi' bickering brattle ' 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 


With trembling voice I tune my strain 


Wi' murd'ring pattle i 


To join with those. 


Who boldly daur thy cause maintain 


I'm truly sorry man's dominion 


In spite o' foes : 


Has broken nature's social union, 




An' justifies that ill opinion. 


In spile o' 3rowds, in spite o' mobs, 


Which makes thee startli 


re 3{ite of undermining jobs. 


At me, thy poor earth-born companion. 


In spite o' dark banditti stabs 


An' fellow-mortal! 


At worth an' merit, 




dj 809UL.!-ie.ij, eTen wi' holy robes. 


I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 


But hellish spirit. 


What then? poor beastie, thou maun Uvel 




A daimen icker in a thrave 


Ayr ! my der.r, my native ground, 


'S a sma' request: 


Within thy presbyterial bound 


I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave. 


A candid lib'ral band is found 


And never miss'tl 


Of public teachers. 




ha mrn, as Christians too, renown' d, 


Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ; 


in' manly preachers. 


Its silly wa's the win's are strewia*! 



iO« 



THE P0]5±iCAL WORKS 



An' uaething, now, to big a new ane, 
0' foggage green ! 

An' bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell and keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin' fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 
*Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch cauld I 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, 

Gang aft a-gley, 
An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain. 

For promis'd joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me I 
Tne present only toucheth thee : 
But, Och ! I backward cast my e'e. 

On prospects drear i 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear. 



XXXVII. 

SCOTCH DRINK. 

" Gia him strong drink, until lie wink. 

That's sinking in despair; 
An' liqu )r guid to fire his bluid, 

That's prest wi' grief an' care; 
There .et 1 im bouse, an' deep carouse, 

Wi' bunripers flowing o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts 

An' minds his griefs no more." 

Solomcn's Proverb, xxxi.6, 7. 

, '■' 1 here enclcise you," said Burns, 20 March, 1786, to 
•It friend Kennedy, " r:i7 Scotch Drink; 1 hope some 
tree before we hear the gowk, to have the pleasure of 
iceing you at Kilmarnock : when I intend we shall have 
a gill between us, in a mutchkin stoup."] 

Let other poets raise a fracas 

•Bout vine«, an' wines, an' dru'k€M Bacchus, 



An' crabbit names and stories wrack UB, 
An' grate our lug. 

I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us. 
In glass or jug. 

0, thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink: 
Whether thro' wimplin' worms thou jink, 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, 

In glorious faem, 
Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink. 

To sing thy name I 

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn. 
An' aits set up their awnie horn. 
An' pease an' beans, at e'en or morn. 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou king o' grain I 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood. 
In souple scones, the wale o' food ! 
Or tumblin' in the boilin' flood 

Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's bloo<^ 

There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame an' keeps us livin' ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin' 
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin' ; 

But, oil'd by thee. 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin,' 

Wi' rattlin' glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care ; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, 

At's weary toil ; 
Thou even brightens dark Despair * 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy, siller weed, 
Wi' gentles thou erects thy head; 
Yet humbly kind in time o' need, 

The poor man's winb, 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread. 

Thou kitchens fine. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 

But thee, what were our fairs an' rants ? 

Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts. 

By thee inspir'd, 
When gaping they besiege the tents. 

Are doubly fir'd. 



OF ROBERT BURNS 



iOi 



That merrj flight we get the corn in, 


May gravels round his blather wrench. 


sweetly then thou reams the horn in! 


An' gouts torment him inch by inch, 


Or reekin' on a new-year morning 


Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 


In cog or dicker, 


0' sour disdain, 


Ln' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, 


Out owre a glass o' whiskey punch 


An' gusty sucker 1 


Wi' honest men 


When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, 


whiskey ! soul o' plays an' pranks ! 


An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 


Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks! 


rare ! to see thee fizz an' freath 


When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 


I' th' lugget caup ! 


Are my poor verses! 


Then Burnewin comes on like Death 


Thou comes they rattle i' their ranka 


At ev'ry chap. 


At ither's a— s ! 


Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ; 


Thee, Ferintosh ! sadly lost ! 


Tlie brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, 


Scotland lament frae coast to coast I 


Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 


Now colic grips, an' barkin' hoast, 


The strong forehammei 


May kill us a' ; 


Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 


For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast. 


Wi' dinsome clamour. 


Is ta'en awa 


When skirlin' weanies see the light. 


Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, 


f hou maks the gossips clatter bright. 


Wha mak the whiskey stells their prize ! 


IIow fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight ; 


Haud up thy han', Deil I ance, twice, thrice 1 


Wae worth the name ! 


There, seize the blinkers! 


Nae howdie gets a social night, 


An' bake them up in brunstane pies 


Or Dlack frae them. 


For poor d— n'd drinkers 



When neibors anger at a plea. 
An' just as wud as wud can be. 
How easy can the barley-bree 

Cement the quarrel ! 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, 

To tasie the barrel. 

A.lake ! that e'er my muse has roa&on 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason! 
But monie daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice, 
An' hardly, in a winter's season. 

E'er spier her price. 

W48 worth that brandy, burning trash I 
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash ! 
Tvrins monie a poor, doylt, druken hash, 

0' half his days ; 
Ai' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, 
Te chief, to you my tale I tell, 
?oor plackless devils like mysel'. 

It sets you ill, 
WV bitter, Uarthfu' wines to mell, 

Or foreign gill. 



Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, an' whiskey gill, 
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, 

Tak' a' the rest. 
An' deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



XXXVIII. 

THE author's 
EARNEST CRY AND PRATER 

TO THB 

SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES 

IN THE 

HOUSE OF COMMONS. 

'D«are8t of distillation ! last and best! — 

How art thou lost ! " 

Parody on Miltor 

["This Poem w;is written," snys Burns, "before tri 

act anent the Scottish distilleries, of session 1786, fi>» 

which Scotland and the autlior return tlieir ni' st grute 

' ful thanks." Hefora the possiiio: of this lenient act, »( 

> sharp was the law in the North, that some (iisltUeiB 



108 



THE POETICAL WOEKS 



lelinquished their trade ; the price of barley was affected, 
and 8c()tliind, already exasperated at the refusal of a 
niihtia, for which slie was a petitioner, began to handle 
her elvymore. and was perhaps only hindered fromdraw- 
•ng '•. by the act mentioned by the poet. In an early 
a»>/'y of the poem, he thus alludes to Colonel Hugh 
^'ontgomery, afterwards Earl of Eglinton : — 

*' Thee, sodger Hugh, my watchman stented, 
If bardies e'er are represented, 
I ken if that yere sword were wanted 

Ye'd lend yere hand; 
But when there's aught to say anent it 

Yere at a stand." 

The poet was not sure that Montgomery would think 
the compliment to his ready hand an excuse in full for 
the allusion to his unready tongue, and omitted the 
Btanza.] 

Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires, 
Wha represent our brughs an' shires, 
An' doucely manage our affairs 

In Parliament, 
To you a simple Bardie's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Alas I my roupet Muse is hearse I 

Your honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, 

To see her sittin' on her a — e 

Low i' the dust, 
An' scriechin' out prosaic verse, 

An' like to brust I 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland an' me's in great affliction. 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction 

On aquavitae ; 
An' rouse them up to strong conviction, 

An' move their pity 

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier youth. 

The honest, open, naked truth: 

Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth. 

His servants humble: 
The muckie devil blaw ye south. 

If ye dissemble ! 

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom ? 
Bpeak out, an' never fash your thumb ! 
Liet posts an' pensions sink or soom 

Wi' them wha grant *em : 
If honestly they canna come. 

Far better want 'em. 

?n gath'rin votes you were na slack ; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack; 



Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back, 
An' hum an' haw; 

But raise your arm, an' tell your crack 
Before them a'. 

Paint Scotland greetin' owre her thrizxle, 
Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle ; 
An' damn'd excisemen in a bussle, 

Seizin' a stell. 
Triumphant crushin't like a mussel 

Or lampit shell. 

Then on the tither hand present hex 

A blackguard smuggler, right behint her, 

An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner, 

Colleaguing join, 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter 

Of a' kind coin. 

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot. 
To see his poor auld mither's pot 

Thus dung in staves, 
An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves ? 

Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, 

Trode i' the mire out o' sight ! 

But could I like Montgomeries fight, 

Or gab like Boswell, 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, 

An' tie some hose well, 

God bless your honours, can ye see't, 
The kind, auld, canty carlin greet. 
An' no get warmly on your feet. 

An' gar them hear it ! 
An' tell them with a patriot heat. 

Ye winna bear it ? 

Some o' you nicely ken the lawa, 
To round the period an' pause. 
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues 
Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wiaxtg* 

Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran' : 
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;' 
An' that glib-gabbet Highland baron, 

The Laird o' Graham ;' 
An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarrren, 

Dundas his name. 



i Sdr Adam Ferguson. 



2 The Dnke of Montrose 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



10» 



Eiskine, ^ spnnkie Norland billie ; 
True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay ; 
An' Livingstone, the bauJd Sir "Willie: 

An' monie ithers, 
W>>riTn auld Demos+lienes or Tully 

Might own for brithers. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle. 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle : 
Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 

Ye'll see't or lang, 
Shc'il teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, 

Anither sang. 

This while she's been in crankous mood, 
Her lost militia fir'd her bluid ; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskie !) 
An' now she's like to rin red-wud 

About her whiskey 

An' Ti — d, if ance th«>y pit her till't, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kii. 
An' durk an' pistol at her belt. 

She'll tak the streets, 
An" rin her whittle to the hilt, 

I' th' first she meets ! 

For God sake, sirs, then speak her fair, 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
An' to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed, 
An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear, 

To get remead. 

Y n ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ; 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the cadie I 
An' send him to his dicing box, 

An' sportin' lady. . 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's 
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks. 
An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's* 

Nine times a-week, 
If he s'me scheme, like tea an' winnocks, 

Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach,' 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 

»A worthy old hosteos of tho author's in Mauchline, 
irhBre he sometir^es studies politics over a glass of guid 
Mi.d Scotch drink 



H 3 need na fear their foul reproach 
Nor erudition, 

Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch. 
The Coalition, 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung ; 
An' if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 
Tho' by the neck she should be strung, 

She'll no desert. 

An' now, ye chosen Five-and- Forty, 
May still your mither's heart support ye, 
Then, though a minister grow dorty. 

An' kick your place, 
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, 

Before his face. 

God bless your honours a' your days, 
Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise. 
In spae o' a' the thievish kaes. 

That haunt St. Jamie s i 
Your humble Poet signs an' prays 

While Rab his name K- 



POSTSCRIPT. 



Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies 
See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

Biit blythe and frisky. 
She eyes her freeborn, martial boys, 

Tak ajQF their whiskey. 

Whn,t tho' their Phoebus kinder warms. 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms I 
When wretches range, in famish'd swarms. 

The scented groves. 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther; 
They downa bide the stink o' powther ; 
Their bauldest thought's a' hank'ring sirithei 

To Stan' or rin, 
Till skelp — a shot — they're aflf, a' throther 

To save thdr glin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his iiili 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say, such is royal George's will. 

An' there's the fc % 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 



no 



iTiE POETICAL WORKS 



JJae cauld faint-hearted doubtings tease Mm ; 
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees Mm; 
Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him ; 

An' when he fa's, 
His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es Mm 

In faint huzzas! 

Sages their solemn een may steek, 
An' raise a philosophic reek, 
An' physi'»ally causes seek, 

In clime an' season; 
l\nt tell me whiskey's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason. 

Scotland, my auld, respected mither! 
The' whiles ye moisti;^ jour leather, 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather 

Ye tjje y )ur dam; 
Freedom and whiskey go \g thegither! — 

TaJ iff your dram I 



XXXIX. 
ALDRt^SS TO THE UNCO GUID, 

OR THE 

RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 

"My son, these maxims make a rule, 

And lump them ay thegither; 

A'he Rigid Righteous is a fool, 

The Rigid Wise anither : 
The cleanest corn that e'er was dight 

May hae some pyles o' caff in; 
So ne'er a fellow-creatu'-e slight 
For random fits o' daf.. ^." 

Solomon. — Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16. 

["Burns," says Hogg, in a note on this Poem, " has 
unritten more from his own heart and his own feelings 
than any other poet. External nature had few charms 
for him ; the sublime shades and hues of heaven and 
e^rlh never excited his enthusiasm : but with the secret 
/< mtains of passion in the human soul he was well 
«cqu;iinted." Burns, indeed, was not what is called a 
Jpfcriptive poet: yet with what exquisite snatches of 
Jescriiitifui are son.e of his poems adorned, and in what 
(Yai^rjint and romantic scenes he enshrines the heroes and 
heioines of many of his finest songs! Who the high, 
exalted, virtuous dames were, to whom the Poem refers, 
we are not told. How much men stand mdebted to want 
•n opportunity to sin, and how much of their good name 

hey owe to the ignorance of the w ^rld, were inquiries 

1 which the poet found pleasure.] 

I. 

YE wha are sae guia yourse ' 
Sae pious and sae holy, 



YeVe nought to do but mark and tell 
Your neibor's fauts and folly ! 

Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, 
Supply'd wi' store o' water. 

The heaped happer's ebbing still. 
And still the clap plays clatter. 



Hear me, ye venerable core, 

As counsel for poor mortals, 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaikit Folly's portals ; 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 

Would here propone defences, 
Theii donsie tricks, their black mistake* 

Their failings and mischances. 



Ye see your state wi' theirs compared. 

And shudder at the niffe^*, 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 

What maks the mighty differ ? 
Discount wVit scant occasion gave, 

That purity ye pride in, 
And (what's aft mair than a' the ?.aYe) 

Your better art o' hiding. 



Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop, 
What ragings must his veins convulse. 

That still eternal gallop : 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail. 

Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail. 

It makes an unco lee-way 



See social life and glee sit down. 

All joyous and unthinking, 
'Till, quite transmugrify'd, they^re groin 

Debauchery and drinking ; 
would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

D-mnation of expenses ! 



Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Ty'd up in godly laces, 
Before ye gie poor frailty names, 

Suppose a change o' cases 
A dear lov'd lad, convenience bnug, 

A treacherous inclination — 



OF ROBEKT BUKNS. 



Ill 



But, let me whisper, i' your lug, 


Has auld Kilmarnock seen the d^il'' 


'^ 're aiblins nae temptation. 


Or great M'Kinlay^^ thrawn his heel ? 




Or Robinson^' again grown weel. 


T 1 1. 


To preach an' read ? 


Then gently scan your *irother man, 


** Na, waur than a' !" cries ilka chiel- 


Still gei^tler sister woman; 


Tarn Samson's dead ! 


Though they may gang a kennin' wrang, 




To step aside is human : 


Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane, 



One point must still be greatly dark, 
The moving why they do it : 

And just as lamely can ye mark, 
How far perhaps they rue it. 



Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
Ue knows each chord — its various tone, 

Each spring — its various bias: 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it ; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 



XL. 

TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY.» 
• An honest man's the noblest work of God." 

POPK. 

[Tarn Samson was a west country seedsman and sports- 
man, who loved a good song, a social glass, and relished 
K snot so well that he expressed a wish to die and be 
onried in the moors. On tliis hint Burns wrote the Elegy : 
when Tarn lieard o' this he waited on the poet, caused 
nim to recite it, and expressed displeasure at being 
numbered with the dead : the author, whose wit was as 
ready as his rhymes, added the Per Contra in a moment, 
much to the delight of his friend. At his death the four 
lines of Epitaph Averecut on his gravestone. " This poem 
has always," says Hogg, " been a great country favour- 
ite : it abounds with happy expressions. 

' In vain the ourns cam down like waters, 
An acre braid.' 

WLat a p*:t:-e of a flooded burn ! any other poet would 
<iave given ua a long description : Burns dashes it down 
at 01:8 ic 1 style so graphic no one can mistake it. 

' Perhaps upon his mouldering breast 
Some spitefu' moorfowl bigs her nest.' 

■^latch that sentence who can."] 



• When t is worthy old iiportsman went out last muir- 
<cw ue-ison, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, 
'the insr of his fields." 

2 A pre.'icher, a great favoarite with the naillion. Vide 
•he Ordmation, «tpr.za II 



An' sigh, an' sob, an' greet her lane. 
An' deed her bairns, man, wife, an wean. 

In mourning weed ; 
To death, she's dearly paid the kane, 

Tam Samson's dead! 

The brethren 0' the mystic level 
May hing their head in woefu' bevel, 
Whil6 by their nose the tears will revel, 

Like ony bead ; 
Death's gien the lodge an unco devel, 

Tam Samson's dead! 

When Winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
When to the lochs the curlers flock, 

Wi' gleesome speed, 
Wha will they station at the cock ? 

Tam Samson's dead I 

He was the king o' a' the core, 
To guard or draw, or wick a bore, 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time o' need ; 
But now he lags on death's hog-score, 

Tam Samson's dead! 

Now safe the stately sawmont sail, 
And trouts be-dropp'd wi' crimson hail, 
And eels weel ken'd for souple tail, 

And geds for greed. 
Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail 

Tam Samson dead. 

Rejoice, ye birring patricks a' ; 

Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw; 

Ye maukins, cock 3'our fud fu' braw, 

Withouten dread ; 
Your mortal fae is now awa' — 

Tam Samson's dead! 

That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd 
Saw him in shootin' graith adorn'd. 



3 Another preacher, an equal favourite with the fei» 
who was at that time ailing. F )r him see also the Or J» 
nation, stanza IX. 



112 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



While pointers round impatient burn'd, 
Frae couples freed ; 

But, Ocli ! he gaed and ne'er return'd ! 
Tarn Samson's dead I 

In vain auld age his body batters ; 
In vait the gout his ancles fetters ; 
ti vain the burns cam' down like waters, 

An acre braid ! 
Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters, 

Tarn Samson's dead I 

Owre many a weary hag he limpit. 
An' ay the tither shot he thumpit, 
Till coward death behind him jumpit, 

Wi' deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

When at his heart he felt the dagger. 
He reel'd his wonted bottle swagger. 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi^ weel-aim'd heed; 
'* L — d, five !" he cry'd, an' owre did stagger; 

Tam Samson's dead! 

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father; 
Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
Whare Burns has wrote in rhyming blether 

Tam Samson's dead! 



There low he lies, in lasting rest ; 
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, 

. To hatch an' breed ; 
Alas! nae mair he'll them molest! 

Tam Samson's dead! 

When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three volleys let his mem'ry crave 

0' pouther an' lead, 
'Till echo answer frae her cave 

Tam Samson's dead! 

Heav'n rest his soul, whare'er he be! 
Is th' wish 6' mony mae than me ; 
He had twa fauts, or may be three. 

Yet what remead ? 
he social, honest jnan want we : 

Tam Samson's dead I 



EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies, 
Ye canting zealots spare him ! 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'U mend or ye win near him* 



PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly 
Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie, 
Tell ev'ry social honest billie 

To cease his grievin', 
For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, 

Tam Samson's livin'. 



XLI. 
LAMENT, 

OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSITI 
OF A 

FRIEND'S AMOUR. 

" Alas ! how oft does goodness wound itself! 
And sweet affection prove the spring of woe.'' 

HoM*. 

[The hero and heroine of this little mournful poem, 
were Robert Burns and Jean Armour. " This waw a 
most melancholy affair," says the poet in h;s letter to 
Mooi-e, " which I cannot yet bear to reflect oa, and had 
very nearly given me one or two of the principal qualifi- 
cations for a place among those who have lost the chart 
and mistaken the reckoning of rationality." Hogg and 
Motherwell, with an ignorance which is easier to laugh 
at than account for, say this Poem was " written on the 
occasion of Alexander Cunningham's darling sweethej rt 
slighting him and marrying another: — she acted a wise 
part." With what care they had read the great poet 
whom they jointly edited in is needless to say: and how 
they could read the last two lines of the third verse and 
commend the lady's wisdom for slighting her lover, 
seems a problem which defies definition. This mistake 
was pointed out by a friend, and corrected in a seccnd 
issue of the volume. j 

1. 

THOU pale orb, that silent shines, 

While care-untroubled mortals sleep • 
Thou seest a wretch who inly pines, 

And wanders here to wail and weep ! 
With woe I nightly vigils keep, 

Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam; 
And mourn, in lamentation deep. 

How life and love are all a dream 



OF ROBERT BUKNS. lib 


II. 


Full many a pang, and many a throe, 


V joyless view thy rays adorn 


Keen recollection's direful train. 


The faintly marked distant hill : 


Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low. 


I joyless view thy trembling horn, 


Shall kiss the distant, western main. 


Reflected in the gurgling rill : 




My fondly-fluttering heart, be still : 


VIII. 


TL ^u busy pow'r, Remembrance, cease ! 


And when my nightly couch 1 try, 


Ah ! mist the agonizing thrill 


Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, 


For ever bar returning peace I 


My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, 




Keep watchings with the nightly thief: 


III. 


Or if I slumber, fancy, chief, 


No idly-feign'd poetic pains, 


Reigns haggard -wild, in sore afi'right: 


My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim; 


Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief, 


No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 


From such a horror-breathing night. 


No fabled tortures, quaint and tamo : 




the plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 


IX. 


The oft-attested Pow'rs above ; 


! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse 


The promis'd father's tender name ; 


Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway . 


These were the pledges of my love ! 


Oft has thy silent -marking glance 




Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray ! 


IV. 


The time, unheeded, sped away, 


Encircled in her clasping arms. 


While love's luxurious pulse beat high. 


How have the raptur'd moments flown I 


Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray. 


How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 


To mark the mutual kindling eye. 


For her dear sake, and hers alone ! 




And must I think it ! — is she gone. 


X. 


My secret heart's exulting boast ? 


Oh ! scenes m strong remembrarce set ' 


And does she heedless hear my groan ? 


Soenes never, never to return 1 


And is she ever, ever lost ? 


Scenes, if in stupor I forget. 




Again 1 feel, again I burn ! 


V. 


From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 


)h ! can she bear so base a heart, 


Life's weary vale I'll wander thro' ; 


So lost to honour, lost to truth, 


And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 


As from the fondest lover part. 


A faithless woman's broken vow. 


The plighted husband of her youth! 




Alas .' life's path may be unsmooth ! 
Her way may lie thro' rough distress ! 






Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe, 


XLIl. 


iler sorrows share, and make them less ? 




VI. 


DESPONDENCY. 


Ye winged hours that o'er us past. 


AN ODE. 


Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd. 


[« I think," said Burns, " it is one of the greateb plea 


Your aear remembrance in my breast. 


Bures attending a poetic genius, that we can give 00.1 


My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd. 


woes, cares, jovs, and loves an embodied forn, in vt.fB9, 
whicn to me is ever imraedinte ease." He elsew lere 


That breast, how dreary now, and void, 


says, " My passions raged like so many devils till t. «y 


For her too scanty once of room ! 


got vent in rhyme." Tliat eminent painter, Fuseli, on 


Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, 


seeing his wife in a passion, said composedly, " Sweai 


And not a wish to gild the gloom I 


my love, swear heartily: you know not how much it wil' 
ease vou !" This poem was printed in the Kilmarntick 




edition, nnd gives a true picture of those bitter moments 


VII. 


experienced by the bard, when love and fortune alikt 


The morn that warns th' approaching day, 


deceived him.] 


Awakes me up to toil and woe : 


i. 


I see the hours in long array. 


Oppbess'd with grief, oppress'd with car«, 


That I must suflFer, lingering slow 


A burden more than I can bear. 



114 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



I set me down and sigh : 
life ! thou art a galling load, 
Along a rough, a weary road, 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim-backward as I cast my view, 
What sick'ning scenes appear ! 
Vfiifeii sorrows yet may pierce me thro' 
Too justly I may fear! 
Still caring, despairing, 

Must be my bitter doom ; 
My woes here shall close ne'er 
But with the closing tomb ! 



Happy, ye sons of busy life. 
Who, equal to the bustling strife, 

No other view regard ! 
Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd, 
Yet while the busy means are ply'd, 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, 

Unfitted with an aim. 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night 
And joyless morn the same; 
You, bustling, andjustling. 

Forget each grief and pain ; 
I, listless, yet restless. 
Find every prospect vain. 



How blest the solitary's lot. 
Who, all-forgetting, all forgot, 

Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, 

Beside his crystal well! 
Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought, 

By unfrequented stream. 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream ; 
While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to heav'n on high, 
As wand'ring, meand'ring. 
He views the solemn sky. 



Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd 
Where never human footstep trac'd, 

Less fit to play the part; 
The lucky moment to improve. 
And just to stop, and just to move, 

With self-respecting art: 
But, ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, 
- Whicb T too keenly taste, 



The solitary can despise. 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not, 

Or human love cr hate. 
Whilst I here, must cry here 
At perfidy ingrate ! 



Oh ] enviable, early days. 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maae, 

To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill exchang'd for riper times, 
To fee.' the follies, or *he crimes. 

Of others, or my own! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, 

Like linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court. 
When manhood is your wish ! 
The losses, the crosses. 

That active man engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all. 
Of dim declining age ! 



XLIII. 

THB 

COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. 

" Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure : 
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the pour." 

Gray. 

[The house of W illiam Burns was the scene o-f this 
fine, devout, and tranc^uil drama, and "William himself 
was the saint, the father, and the husband, who give* 
life and sentiment to the whole. " Robert ha^^ frequent- 
ly remarked to me," says Gilbert Burns, " that ha 
thought there was something peculiarly venerablti in tb« 
phrase, ' Let us worship God !' used by ri decent sober 
head of a fanSly, introducing family worship." To thj« 
sentiment of the author the world is mdebted for the 
"Cotter's Saturday Night." He owed some little, how 
ever, of the inspiration to Fergusson's " Farmer's lFg-J«,' 
a poem of great merit The calm tone and holy compo 
sure of the Cotter's S.iini-,i y Night have beea mistaks* 
Dy Hogg for want of nerve and life. " It is a dxh. neavy; 
lifeless poem," he says, " and the only beauty it pos 
Besses, in my estimation, is, that it is a sort of fami'iy 
picture of the poet's family. The worst thing of all, it 
is not original, but is a decided imitation of I'ergusson't 
beautiful pastoral, 'The Farmer's Ingle: I have a per 
feet contempt for all plagiarisn.* ann imitations.' 
Motherwell tries ti^ qualify the censui-e of his brothe; 
editor, by quotinsf L'^ck^hart's opinion — at once loft-r 
and juac, of this fine picture of domestic *iappmess an** 
dovotlon.l 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



Ili 



My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend ! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
WTith honest pride, I scorn each selfish end: 
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and 
praise : 
Tt you T sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; 

The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 

TN'hat Aiken in k cottage would have been; 

Lb ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, 

I ween ! 



November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 

The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh: 
The black'ning trains o' craws to their re- 
pose: 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, 
This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
^nd weary, o'er the moor, his course does hame- 
ward bend. 



At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher 
thro' 
To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin' noise an' 
glee. 
rtis wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, 
His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie Wifie's 
smile. 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, 
iu' makes him quite forget his labour and his 
toil. 



Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, 
At service out amang the farmers roun' : 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 
Inyouthfu' bloom, love sparkling in here'e, 
Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new 
gown, 
Or deposite her sair woo penny-fee, 
Ti help her parents dear, if they in hardship 
be. 



With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meei^ 

An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers: 
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd, fleet. 

Each tells the unco's that he sees or hears; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The Mother, wi' her needle an' her shears, 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's tlifl 
new; — 
The Father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 



Their master's an' their mistress's command, 

The younkers a' are warned to obey; 
And mind their labours wi' in eydent hand, 

An' ne'er, tho' out o' sigh\, to jauk or play: 
*' And ! be sure to fear the Lord alway I 

And mind your duty, duly, morn and night 1 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. 

Implore His counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain, that sought thi 
Lord aright!" 



But, hark ! a rap comes gent/y to the door , 
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same. 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily Mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek. 
With heart-struck anxious care, inquires hi* 
f name, 

I While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the Mother hears it's nae wild, 
worthless rake. 



Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ; 
A strappan youth ; he taks the Mother'i 
eye; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; 
The Father cracks of horses, pleughs, and 
kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 
But blate, an laithfu', scarce can weel be- 
have ; 
The Mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sa« 
grave ; 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's resnected likt 
the lave. 



116 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



bappy love ! where love like this is found! 
heart-felt raptures ! — IHss beyond com- 
pare ! 
I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 

And sage oxperieuce bids me this declare — 
' If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure 
spare, 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
In other's arms, breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the 
ev'ning gale." 



Ts there, in human form, that bears a heart — 
A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! 
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their 
child? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distrac- 
tion wild ? 



But now the supper crowns their simple board, 
The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's 
food: 
The soupe their only hawkie does afford, 
That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her 
cood: 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, 
fell. 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, 
no«r 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the 
bell, 



The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face. 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 
The Sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace. 

The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride ; 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; 
rhose strains that once did sweet in Zion 
glide, 
He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
^d ' Let us worship God !' he says, with so- 
lemn air. 



XIII. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise; 

They tune their hearts, by far the nolles< 

aim; 

Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measurei 

rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name; 

Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame » 
The tickl'd ear no heart-felt raptures raise; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 



The priest-like Father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire , 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 



Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, f 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was 
shed; 
How He, who bore in Heaven tli* second 
name, 
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head; 
How His first followers and servants sped, 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a 
land: 
How he who lone in Patmos banished, 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom prpnounc'd by 
Heaven's command. 

XVI. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's- }a.e-xhal 
King, 
The Saint, the Father, and thj Hudband 
prays : 
fiope ' springs exulting on triumyLiKt wing,*' 
That thus they all shall meet In fatui^e days : 
There e-rer bask in uncreated lays. 

No more to sigh, or shed tVe bitter tear. 
Together hymning Iheir Creator's praise, 
In 9ucn society, yst still moi-e dear: 
While circling Time moves round in an ©terna' 
sphere. 

I Hope. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



117 



XVII. 

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide, 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the 
soul ; 
knl in His book of life the inmates poor enrol. 

XVIII. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 

The youngling cottagers retir* to rest : 
Their Parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 
That He, who stills the raven's clam'rous 
nest. 
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride. 
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, 
For them and for their little ones provide ; 
Bat, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 



From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur 
springs, 
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd 
abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
" An honest man's the noblest work of 
God;"i 
And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road. 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous load, 
D'sguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Btudiea vn arts of Hell, in wickedness refin'd I 



Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is 
sent! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
, Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet 
content ! 
And, 1 may heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while, 

^d stand a wall of fire around their much- 

lov'd Isle. 



XXI. 

Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 

That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted 
heart : 
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic prido, 
Or nobly die, the second gloriotis part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art. 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and rewar.i I) 
never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; 

But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament ana 
guard ! 



XLIV. 

THE FIRST PSALM. 

[This version was first printed in the second edition ol 
the poet's works. It cannot be regarded as one of hil 
happiest compositions : it is inferior, not indeed in ease 
but in simplicity and antique vigour of language, to tha 
common version used in the Kirk of Scotland. Burnj 
had admitted "Death and Dr. Hornbook" into Creech', 
edition, and probably desired to balance it with soma 
thing at which the devout could not cavil.] 

The man, in life wherever plac'd, 

Hath happiness in store. 
Who walks not in the wicked's way, 

Nor learns their guilty lore ! 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride 

Casts forth his eyes abroad. 
But with humility and awe 

Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on high, 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt 

Shall to the ground be cast, 
And, like the rootless stubble, tost 

Before the sweeping blast. * 

For why? that God the good adcre 
Hath giv'n them peace and rest, 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



118 



THE POETICAL WOIIKS 



XLV. 
THE FIRST SIX VERSES 

OF THE 

NINETIETH PSALM. 

[The ninetieth Psalm is said to have been a favourite 
J3l the rousehold of William Burns : the version used by 
9i9 hiTit, though unequal, contams beautiful verses, and 
posnesses the 'same strain of sentiment and moral reason- 
ing as the poera of " M in vras made to Mourn." These 
rerses first app<»ared in the Edinburgh edition ; and they 
might have been spared ; for in tlie hands of a poet igno- 
rant of the original language of the Psalmist, how could 
they be so correct in sense and expression as in a sacred 
■t;am is not only (?«sirable but necessary ?] 

Thou, the first, the greatest friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling place ! 

Before the mountains heav'd their heads 

Beneath Thy forming hand. 
Before this ponderous globe itself 

Arose at Thy command ; 

That Pow'r which rais'd and still upholds 

This universal frame, 
From countless, unbeginning time 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years 

Which seem to us so vast, 
Appear no more before Thy sight 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou giv'st the word : Thy creature, man. 

Is to existence brought; 
Again Thou say'st, "Ye sons of men, 

Return ye into nought !" 

Thou lay est them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood Thou tak'st them oft 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They flourish like the morning flow'r, 

In beauty's pride array'd ; 
But long ere night, cut down, it lies 

All wither'd and decay'd. 



XLVI. 

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH TEJE PLOUGH IS 
APRIL, 1786. 

[This was not the original title of this sweet posin : I 
have a copy in the handwriting of Burns entitled " rhi 
Gowan." This more natural name he changed as he die 
his own, without reasonable cause ; and he changed it 
about the same time, for he ceased to call himself Burnesi 
and his poem " The Gowan," in the first edition of hn 
works. The field at Mossgiel where he turned down the 
Daisy is said to be the same field where some five months 
before he turned up the Mouse ; but this seems likely 
only to those who are little acquainted with tillage — who 
think that in t\me and place reside the chief charms of 
verse ; and who feel not the beauty of " The Daisy," tiL 
they seek- and find the spot on which it grew. Sublime 
morality and the deepest emotions of the soul pass for 
little with those who remember only what geniu* lovei 
to forget.] 

Web, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem : 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonnie lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, 

Wi' spreckl'd breast. 
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

0' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field. 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad. 
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread. 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head - 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies I 



Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray'd, 

And guileless trust, 
'Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard, 

Oq life's rough ocean luckless starr'dl 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
'Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate tc btifiering worth is giv'n, 
Who long witJi wiknts and woes has striv'n, 
By human priUe or cunning driv'n 

To mis'ry's brink, 
'Till wrenched of evory stay but Heav'n, 

lie, ruin'd, sink! 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 
*Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight. 

Shall be thy doom I 



XLvn. 

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 

MAT, 1786. 

{Andrew Aikin, to whom this poem of good counsel is 
t Idressed, was one of the sons of Robert Aiken, writer in 
A/r, to whom the Cotter's Saturday Night is inscribed. 
He became a merchant in Liverpool, wj^h what success 
we are not informed, and 'died at St. Petersburgh. The 
poet has he 31 charged with a desire to teach hypocrisy 
rallier than truth to his " Andrew dear ;" but surely to 
?()ncea' oni's own thoughts and discover those of others, 
"V 9iHrcoiy be called hypocritical : it is, in fact, a ver- 
•i n < f the ccleliraled precept of prudence, " Thoughts 
ti yee and looks loose." Whether he profited by all the 
5 ..asel showered upon him by the muse we know not: 
le wab much respected — his name embalmed, like that ' 
of his father, in the poetry of his friend, is net likely soon 
to perish ] j 



I LANG hae thought, my youthfu* friend, 
A something to have sent you, 

Though it should serve nae ither end 
Than just a kind memento , 



But how (he subject-theme may gang, 
Let time and chance determine ; 

Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 
Perhaps, turn out a sermon 



Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, 

And muckle they may grieve ye : 
For care and trouble set y»ur thought, 

Ev'n when your end's attain'd ; 
And a' your views may come to nought, 

Where ev'ry nerve is strained 



I'll no say men are villains a' ; 

The real, hardened wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law. 

Are to a few restricked ; 
But, och ! mankind are unco weak 

An' little to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance shake. 

It's rarely right adjusted ! 



Yet they wha fa' in Fortune's strife, 

Their fate we should na censure 
For still th' important end of life 

They equally may answer ; 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; 
A man may tak a ueebor's part. 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 



Ay free, afF han' your story tell, 

When wi' a bosom crony ; 
But still keep something to yoursel* 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek thro' ev'ry other man, 

Wi' sharpen' d, sly inspection 



The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' illicit ro .e, 

Tho' naething should divulge it: 
I waive the quantum o' the sin. 

The hazard of concealing; 
But, oclf! it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling 1 



120 THE POETICAL WORKgi 


VII. 


XLVIII. 


To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, 


TO A LOUSE, 


Assiduous wait upon her ; 




And gather gear by ev'ry wile 


ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY's B0NNET,„AT CHtTBCU. 


That's justified by honour ; 


[A Mauchline incident of a Mauchline ludy is related 


Not for to hide it in a hedge, 


in this poem, which to many of the softer friends of th« 


Nor for a train-attendant ; 


bard was anything but welcome : it appeared in the Kit 
marnock copy of his Poems, and remonstrance and per- 


But for the glorious privilege 


suasion were alike tried in vain to keep it out ol tt.« 


Of being independent. 


Edinburgh edition. Instead of regarding it as a seasoa- 




able rebuke to pride and vanity, some of his learnau 


• 


commentators called it coarse and vulgar — those classic 


VII !• 


persons might have remembered that Julian, no vulgal 


The feai o' Hell's a hangman's whip, 


person, but an emperor and a scholar, wore a populou 


To haud the wretch in order ; 


beard, and was proud of it .J 


But where ye feel your honour grip, 


Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie ! 


Let that ay be your border : 


Your impudence protects you sairly : 


Its slighest touches, instant pause — 


I canna say but ye strunt rarely. 


Debar a' side pretences ; 


Owre gauze and lace ; 


And resolutely keep its laws, 


Tho' faith, I fear, ye dine but sparely 


Uncaring consequences 


On sic a place 


IX. 


Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, 


The great Creator to revere 


Detested, shunn'd, by saunt an' sinner. 


Must sure become the creature ; 


How dare you set your fit upon her. 


But still the preaching cant forbear, 


Sae fine a lady ! 


And ev'n the rigid feature : 


Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner 


Yet ne'er with wits profane to range. 


On some poor body. 


Be complaisance extended ; 




An Atheist laugh's a poor exchange 


Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ; 


For Deity offended ! 


There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle 


Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle. 


X. 


In shoals and nations ; 




Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle 


When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 


Your thick plantations. 


Religion may be blinded ; 


A 


Or if she gie a random sting, 


Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight. 


It may be little minded ; 


Below the fatt'rells, snug an' tight ; 


But when on life we're tempest-driv'n. 


Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right 


A conscience but a canker — 


'Till ye've got on it, * 


A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n 


The vera topmost, tow'ring height 


Is sure a noble anchor ! 


0' Miss's bonnet. 


XI. 


My sooth! right Laald ye set your nose oat 


Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! 


As plump an' gray as onie grozet : 


Your heart can ne'er be wanting ! 


for some ranK, mercurial rozet. 


May prudence, fortitude, and truth 


Or fell, red smedduui. 


Erect your brow undaunting ! 


I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, 


In ploughman phrase, ' God send you speed,' 


Wad dross your drodluM 


Still daily to grow wiser : 




And may you better reck the rede 


I wad na been surpris'd to spy 


Than ever did th' adviser ! 


You on an auld wife's flainen toy ; 




Or aiblins some bit duddie boy. 




On's wyliecoat ; 
But Miss's fine Lunardi ! fie ! 






How daur ye do't ? 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



121 



0, Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin' I 
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, 

Are notice takin' 1 

wai some Power the giftie gie us 

To see oursexs as others see us ! 

It wad frae monie a blunder free us 

An' foolish notion ; 
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 

And ev'n deyotion I 



XLIX. 
EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE, 

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. 

[The person to ■'vhora these verses are addressed lived 
it Adamhill in Ayrshire, and merited the praise of rough 
nd ready-witted, which the poem bestows. The ku- 
na:>rcas dream alluded to, was related by way of rebuke 
to a west countiy earl, who was in the habit of calling 
all people of low degree ''Brutes! — damned brutes." 
" I dreamed that 1 was dead," said the rustic satirist to 
his superior, " and condemned for the company I kept. 
When I came to hell-door, where mony of your lordship's 
friends gang, I chappit, and ' Wha are ye, and where 
d'y® come frae?' Satan exclaimed. I just said, that my 
aame was Rankine, and I came frae yere lordship's land. 
'Awawi' you," cried Satan; ' ye canna come here : hell's 
■bu o' his lordship's damned brutes already.' "] 

BOUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine, 
The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin' ! 
There's moni^ godly folks are thinkin', 

Your dreams' an' tricks 
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin' 

Straught to auld Nick's^ 

Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, 
And in your wicked, dru'ken rants, 
jTe mak a devil o' the saunts. 

An' fill them fou ; 
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 

Are a' seen through. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 
That holy robe, dinna tear it ! 



A certcift humorous dream of his was then 
■einlh ^ountr; -side. 



Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, 
The lads in black ! 

But your curst wit, when it comes near it 
Rives't aff^ their li aok. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, 
It's just the blue-gown badge an' claitbing 
0' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naethiug 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony unregenerate heathen. 

Like you or I. 

I've sent you here some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair ; 
Sae, when you hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon sang,2 ye'U sen't wi cannie care, 

And no neglect. 

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! 
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ' 
I've play'd mysel' a bonnie spring. 

An' danc'd my fill! 
I'd better gaen an' sair't the king. 

At Bunker's Hill 

'Twas ae night lately, in my fun, 

I gaed a roving wi' the gun. 

An' brought a paitrick to the grun', 

A bonnie hen, 
And, as the twilight was begun. 

Thought nane wad ken. 

The poor wee thing was little hurt ; 

I straikit it a wee for sport, 

Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me foi't ; 

But, deil-ma-care I 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

The hale aflFair. 

Some auld us'd hands had taen a ncte. 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
I was suspected for the plot ; 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
So gat the whissle o' my groat. 

An' pay't the fee. 

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale. 
An' by my pouther an' my hail, 
An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 

I vow an' s^ear ! 
The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, 

For this niest year. 



2 A Bong he had promised the tiuthnr 



122 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



As soon's the clockin-time is by, 


The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, 


An' the wee pouts begun to cry, 


Wi' tearfu' e'e ; 


L — (i, I'se hae sportin' by an' by, 


For weel I wat they'll s airly miss him 


For my gowd guinea j 


That's owre the sea I 


The' I should herd the buckskin kye 




For't, in Virginia. 


Fortune, they hae room to grumble 1 




Hadst thou taen' aff some drowsy bummle 


Trowth, they had muckle for to blame ! 


Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble, 


'Twas neither broken wing nor limb. 


'Twad been nae plea , 


But twa-three draps about the wame 


But he was gleg as onie wumble, 


Scarce thro' the feathers ; 


That's owre the sea I 


Au' baith a yellow George to claim, 




An' thole their blethers ! 


Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 




An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; 


It pits me ay as mad's a hare ; 


*Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear. 


So I can rhyme nor write nae mair ; 


In flinders flee; 


But pennyworths again is fair, 


He was her laureate monie a year, 


When time's expedient: 


That's owre the saa I 


Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 




7our most obedient. 


He saw Misfortune's cauld nor-west 




Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 




A jillet brak his heart at last. 

Til 1-- l-_ 1 



ON A SCOTCH BARD, 

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 

[^Burns in tiiis Poem, as well as in others, spieaks open- 
ly of his tastes and passions: his own fortunes are dwelt 
on with painful minuteness, and his errors are recorded 
with the accuracy, but not the seriousness of the con- 
fessional. He seems to have been fond of taking himself 
to task. It was written when " Hungry ruin had him. in 
the wind," and emigration to the West Indies was the 
only refuge which he could think of, or his friends 
■uggest, from the persecutions of fortune.] 

A' YE wha live by sowps o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
A' ye wha live and never think, 

Come, mourn wi' me t 
On billie's gien us a' a jink, 

An' owre the sea. 

L«.ment him a' ye rantin' core, 
Wha dea-'ly like a random-splore, 
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar 

In social key; 
For now he's taen anither shore, 

An' owre the sea ! 

The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, 
ind in their dear petitions place him ; 



So, took a birth afore the mast. 

An' owre the sea. 

To tremble under fortune's cummock, 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 
Wi' his proud, independent stomach. 

Could ill agree ; 
So, row't his hurdles in a hammock. 

An' owre the sea. 

He ne'er was gien to great misguiding. 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding : 

He dealt it free ; 
The muse was a' that he took pride in,' 

That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 
An' hap him in a cozie biel ; 
Te'll find him ay a dainty chiel. 

And fou o' glee ; 
He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, 

That's owre the seat 

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie 1 
Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 
But may ye flourish like a lily, 

Now bonnilie ! 
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the softt 



THE FAREWELL. 

" The va» wif in himself, what can he suffer? 
O" ■^':s- does he regarc^ his single woes? 
But when, alas ! he multiplies himself, 
Tc doarei selves, to the lov'd tender air, 
Id tl'.ose whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him, 
Tc helpless children ! then, O then ! he feels 
The point of misery fest'ring in his heart, 
And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward. 
Such, such am I ! undone." Thomson. 

[In these serious stanzas, where the comic, as in the 
ines to the Scottish tard, are not permitted to mingle, 
Buras bids farewell to a.l on whom his heart had any 
tlairn. He seems to have looked on tiie sea as only a 
place of peril, and on the West Indies as a charnel-house.] 



Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains, 
Far dearer than the torrid plains 

Where rich ananas blow ! 
Farewell, a mother's blessing dear ! 
A. brother's sigh ! a sister's tear ! 
My Jean's heart-rending throe ! 
i'arewell, my Bess ! tho' thou'rt bereft 

Of my parental care, 
A faithful brother I have left, 
My part in him thou'lt share ! 
Adien too, to you too. 

My Smith, my bosom frien' ; 
When kindly you mind me, 
then befriend my Jean I 



\Vhat bursting anguish tears my heart 
From *hee, my Jeany, must I part I 
Thou weeping answ'rest — " No !■" 
Alas ! misfortune stares my face. 
And points to ruin and disgrace, 

I for thy sake must go ! 
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, 

A grateful, warm adieu ; 
I, with a much-indebted tear, 
Shall still remember you I 
All-hail then, the gale then, 

Wafts me from thee, dear shore 
It rustles, and whistles 
I'll never sec thee more ! 



Ln. 

WRITTEN 

ON THE BLANK LEAF OP A COPY OF MY POEMS, PKU- 
SENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MAREIEE. 

This is another of the poet's lamentatrns, at th« 
prospect of " torrid climes" and the roars of tl o Atlantic 
To Burns, Scotland was the land of promise, the west of 
Scotland his paradise; and the land of dread, Jam;iica! 
I found these lines copied by the poet into a volumt 
which he presented to Dr. Geddes : they were addressed 
it is thought, to the "Dear E." of his earliest corre 
spondence.] 

Once fondly lov'd and still remember'd dear; 

Sweet early ol:J:ct of my youthful vows! 
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere,- 

Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty now allows. 

And when you read the simple artless rhymes, 
One friendly sigh for him — he asks no more,—' 

Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes, 
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar 



LIII. 
A DEDICATION 

TO 

GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

[The gentleman to whom these manly lines are ad- 
dressed, was of good birth, and of an open and generoui 
nature : he was one of the first of the gentry of the west 
to encourage the muse of Coila to stretch hei wings al 
full length. His free life, and free speech, exp>)sed him 
to the censures of that stern divine, Daddie Auld, who 
charged him with the sin of absenting himself from 
church for three successive days; for having, without 
the fear of God's servant before him, profanely said 
damn it, in his presence, and for having gallopped oa 
Sunday. These charges were contemptuously dismisssd 
by the presbyterial court. Hamilton was tlie brother ot 
the Charlotte to whose charms, on tlie banks of Devon, 
Burns, it is said, paid the homnge of a lover, as we'l aJ 
of a poet. The poem had a place in the KiJinarnock edi 
tion, but not as an express dedication.] 

Expect na. Sir, in this narration. 
A fleechin', fleth'rin dedication. 
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid, 
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid, 
Because ye're surnam'd like his Grace ; 
Perhaps related to the race ; 
Then when I'm tir'd — and sae are ye, 
Wr monie a fulsome, sinfu' lie 



^ . : : 1 

124 THE POETICAL WORKS 


Set up a face, how I stop short. 


Steal thro' a winnock frae a whore, 


For fear your modesty be hurt. 


But point the rake that taks the door ; 




Be to the poor like onie whunstane. 


This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' them wha 


And hand their noses to the grunstaue, 


« Maun please the great folk for a wamefou • 


Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving ; 


For me ' sae laigh I needna bow, 


No matter — stick to sound lelieving. 


For, Lord be thankit, I can plough. ; 




A-nd when I downa yoke a naig, 


Learn three-mile piay'rs an' half-mile graccn 


Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg ; 


Wi' weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces ; 


Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin', 


Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan. 


It s just sic poet, an' sic patron. 


And damn a' parties but your own j 




I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 


The Poet, some guid angel help him, 


A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 


Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp hira, 




He may do weel for a' he's done yet, 


ye wha leave the springs o' Calvin, 


But only — he's no just begun yet. 


For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin' ! 




Ye sons of heresy and error. 


The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, 


Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror ! 


I winna lie, come what will o' me,) 


When Vengeance draws the sword in wratli, 


On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be, 


And in the fire throws the sheath ; 


He's just — nae better than he should be. 


When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, 




Just frets 'till Heav'n commission gies him . 


I readily and freely grant, 


While o'er the harp pale Mis'ry moans. 


He downa see a poor man want ; 


And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones. 


What's no his ain, he winna tak it; 


Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ' 


What ance he says, he winna break it ; 


Your pardon, Sir, for this digression. 


Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, 


I maist forgat my dedication ; 


'Till aft his guidness is abus'd ; 


But when divinity comes cross me 


And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 


My readers still are sure to lose me. 


Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang : 




As master, landlord, husband, father, 


So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, 


He does na fail his part in either. 


But I maturely thought it proper, 




When a' my works I did review. 


But then, nae thanks to him for a' that j 


To dedicate them. Sir, to you : 


Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 


Because (ye need na tak it ill) 


It's naething but a milder feature. 


I thought them something like yoursel'. 


Of our poor sinfu', corrupt nature : 




Ye'll get the best o' moral works. 


Then patronize them wi' your favour,* 


'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 


And your petitioner shall ever — 


Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 


I had amaist said, ever pray, * 


Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 


But that's a word I need na say : 




For prayin' I hae little skill o't ; 


That he's the poor man's friend in need, 


I'm baith dead sweer, an' wretched ill o't , 


The gentleman in word and deed. 


But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, 


[t's no thro' terror of damnation ; 


That kens or hears about you. Sir — 


ffa just a carnal inclination 






" May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark, 


Morality, thou deadly bane, 


Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! 


Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! 


May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, 


Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is 


For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 


In moral mercy, truth and justice! 


May Kennedy's far-honour'd name 




Lang beet his hymeneal flame. 


No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; 


Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen. 


Abuse a brother to his back; 


Are frae their nuptial labours risen: 



OF ROBERT BURNS 



121 



Five bonnie lasses round their table, 
A nd seven braw fellows, stout an' able 
To serve their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, with mutual rayi, 
Shine on the ev'ning o' his days ; 
'Till his wee curlie John's-ier-oe, 
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow." 

T will not wind a lang conclusion, 

With complimentary eifusion : 

But whilst your wishes and endeavours 

Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, 

I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, 

Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which pow'rs above prevent) 

That iron-hearted carl, Want, 

Attended in his grim advances 

By sad mistakes and black mischances, 

While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, 

Make you as poor a dog as I am. 

Your humble servant then no more ; 

For who would humbly serve the poor ! 

But by a poor man's hope in Heav'n ! 

While recollection's pow'r is given, 

If, in the vale of humble life. 

The victim sad of fortune's strife, 

I, thro' the tender gushing tear. 

Should recognise my Master dear, 

If friendless, low, we meet together. 

Then Sir, your hand — my friend and brother. 



LIV. 
ELEGY 

ON 

THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX. 

lCroro*k fjuai these verges among the loose papers of 
Bct«, a) d printed them in the Reliquea. They contain 
a po'tion 0/ the character of the poet, record his habitual 
ear«les9teis in worldly affairs, and his desire to be dis- 
tuif^uiahcu.j 

Now Robin lies in his last lair. 

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 

Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him ; 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, 

E'er mair come near him. 



To tell the truth, they seldom fash't hira, 
Except the moment that they crush't him ; 
For sune as chance or fate had hush't 'em, 

Tho' e'e" sae short, 
Then wi' a rhyme or song he lash't 'em. 

And thought it sport. 

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark. 

And counted was baith wight and sfa^rk. 

Yet that was never Robin's mark 

To mak a man ; 
But tell him he was learned and dark, 

Ye roos'd him than f 



LV. 

LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT, 

OF GLENCONNER. 

[The west country farmer to whom this letter vv»« 
sent, was a social man. The poet depended on his judg. 
"ment in the choice of a farm, when he resolved to quil 
the ha'p for the plough: but as EUisland was his choice, 
his skill mav be questioned] 

AuLD comrade dear, and brither sinner. 

How's a' the folk about Glenconner ? 

How do you this blae eastlin wind. 

That's like to blaw a body blind ? 

For me, my faculties are frozen, 

My dearest member nearly dozen'd. 

I've sent you here, by Johnie Simson 

Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on ; 

Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling. 

An' Reid, to common sense appealing. 

Philosophers have fought and wrangled. 

An' meikle Greek and Latin mangled. 

Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd, 

An' in the depth of science mir'd. 

To common sense they now appeal, 

What wives and wabsters see and feel. 

But, hark ye, friend ! I charge you strictly 

Peruse them, an' return them quickly, 

For now I'm grown sae cursed doivt 

I pray and ponder butt the housf- 

My shins, my lane, I there sit ro&stin*, 

Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an' Bostcn ; 

Till by an' by, if I baud on, 

I'll grunt a real gospel groan . 

Already I begin to try it. 

To cast my e'en up like a pyet. 

When by the gun she tumbles o'er, 

Flutt'ring an' gasping in her ffore : 



.26 THE POETICAL WORKS 


Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 




A burning and a shining liaht. 


LVI. 


My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, 


ON THE 


The ace an' wale of honest men : 


BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS OHILD. 


When bending down wi' auld gray hairs. 






[From letters addressed by Burns to Mrs. Du:3l cp, i 


Beneath the load of years and cares. 


would appear that this '< Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o iwftili f 


May He who made him still support him, 


love," was the only son of her daughter^ Mrs. Henri., vrfci 


in' views beyond the grave comfort him, 


had married a French gentleman. The mother soor. fo*. 


His worthy fam'ly far and near, 


!owed the father to the grave: she died in the south of 




France, whither she had gone in search of healtli ] 


God bless them a' wi' grace and gear ! 






Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love. 


My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie, 


And ward o' mony a pray'r, 


The manly tar, my mason Billie, 


What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 


An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy; 


Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 


If he's a parent, lass or boy. 




May he be dad, and Meg the mither, 


November hirples o'er the lea. 


Just five-and-forty years thegither I 


Chill on thy lovely form ; 


An' no forgetting wabster Charlie, 


And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree, 


I'm tauld he offers very fairly. 


Should shield thee frae the storm. 


An' Lord, remember singing Sannock, 




Wi' hale breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock, 


May He who gives the rain to pour. 


An' next my auld acquaintance, Nancy, 


And wings the blast to blaw. 


Since she is fitted to her fancy ; 


Protect thee frae the driving show'r. 


An' her kind stars hae airted till her 


The bitter frost and snaw ! 


A good chiel wi' a pickle siller. 
My kindest, best respects I sen' it. 


May He, the friend of woe and want, 
Who heals life's various stounds. 


To cousin Kate, an' sister Janet ; 

Tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious. 


Protect and guard the mother-plant. 


' ' ' 


And heal her cruel wounds ! 


Fcr, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashious ; 




To grant a heart is fairly civile 


But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, 


But to grant the maidenhead's the devil. 


Fair on the summer-morn : 


An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel'. 


Now feebly bends she in the blast, 


May guardian angels tak a spell. 


Unshelter'd and forlorn. 


An' steer you seven miles south o' hell : 




■ But first, before you see heaven's glory, 


Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 


May ye get monie a merry story. 


Unscath'd by ruffian hand I 


Monie a laugh, and monie a drink. 


And from thee many a parent stem 


And aye eneugh, o' needfu' clink. 


Arise to deck our land ! 


Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you, 




For my sake this I beg it o' you. 






\ssist poor Simson a' ye can. 




V'e'll fin' him just an honest man ; 




iae I conclude, and quat my chanter, 


LVII. 


Terr's, saint or sinner. 

Bob the Kanteb. 


TO MISS CRUIKSHANK, 




A VERY YOFNG LADY. 




WEITTKN or THE BLANK LEAF OP A BOOK. PEESKNTKl 




TO HER BY THE AUTHOB.. 

[The beauteous rose-bud of this poem was one of tht 






daughters of Mr. Cruikshank, a master in the High Schoo 




of Edinburgh, at whose table Burns tras a frequent 




gniest during the year of hope which ne spent in titt 




northern metropolis.! 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 121 


Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 


Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet 


Blooming in thy early May, 


His honest heart enamours. 


Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r, 


And faith ye'il no be lost a whit. 


Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ! 


Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers. 


Never Boreas' hoary path, 




Never Eiirus' poisonous breath, 


III. 


Never baleful stellar lights, 




Taint thee with untimely blights! 


Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye're fair 


Never, never reptile thief 


And Honour safely back her. 


Rict dt. thy virgin leaf! 


And Modesty assume your air. 


Nor even Sol too fiercely view 


And ne'er a ane mistak' her: 


Thy bosom blushing still with dew ! 


And sic twa love-inspiring een 
Might fire even holy Palmers ; 


May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, 


Nae wonder then they've fatal been 


Richly deck thy native stem: 


To honest Willie Chalmers. 


'Till some evening, sober, calm, 




Dropping dews and breathing balm, 




While all around the woodland rings, 


IV. 


And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings ; 


I doubt na fortune may you shore 


Thou, amid the dirgeful sound. 


Some mim-mou'd pouthered priestie. 


Shed thy dying honours round, 


Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore, 


And resign to parent earth 


And band upon his breastie : 


•"he loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 


But Oh ! what signifies to you 




His lexicons and grammars ; 




The feeling heart's the royal blue, 
And that's wi' Willie Chalmers. 




Lvni. 


V. 


WILLI ECHALMERS. 


Some gapin' glowrin' countra laird. 


1 [Lockhart first gave this poetic curiosity to the world : 
he conied it from a small manuscript volume of Poems 


May warstle for your favour ; 
May claw his lug, and straik his beard. 


jiven jy Burns to Lauy Harriet Don, with an explanation 


And hoast up some palaver. 


in these words : " AV. Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrshire, 
a particular friend of mine, asked me to write a poetic 
epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. I had seen her, 
but was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as fol- 


My bonnie maid, before ye wed 

Sic clumsy-witted hammers. 
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp 


lows." Chalmers was a writer in Ayr. I have not heard 


Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers. 


that the lady was influenced by this volunteer elTusion t 




adies are seldom rhymed into the matrimonial snare.] 


VI. 


I. 

Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride, 


Forgive the Bard ! my fond regard 


And eke a braw new brechan, 


For ane that shares my bosom, 


Mj Pegasus I'm got astride. 


Inspires my muse to gie 'm his dues, 


And up Parnassus pechin ; 


For de'il a hair I roose him. 


While? owre a bush wi' downward crush 


May powers aboon unite you soon, 


Th . Joitie beastie stammers ; 


And fructify your amours, — 


Then up he gets and oflF he sets 


And every year come in mair dear 


For sake o' Willie Chalmers. 
II. 


To you a-id Willie Chalmers. 


I doubt na, lass, th&t weel kenn'd name 




May cost a pair o' blushes ; 




' am nae stranger to your fame, 




N^r his warm urged wishes 





128 THE POETICAL WORKS 


LIX. 


LX. 


wTINQ AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOITSE ONE NIGHT, 


TO GAVIN HAMIITON,ESQ[., 


THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWINa 




VERSES 


MAUCHLINE. 


IN TH3 ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. 


(RECOMMENDING A BOT.J 


[Of the origin of these verses Gilbert Burns gives the 


[Verse seems to have been the natural language Ol 


IjiloMrmg account. "The first time Robert heard"the 


Burns. The Master Tootie whose skill he records, Ihwj 


Bpinnat played was at the house of Dr. Lawrie, then 


in Mauchline, and dealt in cows : he was an artful ano 


minister of Loudon, now in Glasgow. Dr Lawrie has 


contriving person, great in bargainijig and intimate witlj 


several daughters; one of them played; the father and 


ail the professional tricks by which old cows are mad€ 


the mother led down the dance ; the rest of the sisters, 


to look young, and six-pint hawki«s pass for those of 


the broth6r,*the poet and the other guests mixed in it. 


twelve.] 


It was n delightful family scene for our poet, then lately 


Mossgiel, May 3, 1786w 


introduced to the world : his mind was roused to a poetic 


I. 


•nthusiasm, and the stanzas were left in the room where 


I HOLD it Sir, my bounden duty, 


lie slept."] 


To warn you how that Master Tootie, 


I. 


Alias, Laird M'Gaun, 


THOU dread Power, who reign'st above I 


Was here to hire yon lad away 


I know thou wilt me hear, 


'Bout whom ye spak the tither day, 


When for this scene of peace and love 


An' wad ha'e done't aff han' : 


I make my prayer sincere. 


But lest he learn the callan tricks, , 




As, faith, I muckle doubt him, 


II. 


Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks. 


The hoary sire— the mortal stroke, 


An' tellin' lies about them; 
As lieve then, I'd have then, 


Long, long, be pleased to spare ; 
'^0 bless his filial little flock 


Your clerkship he should sair, 
If sae be, ye may be 
Not fitted otherwhere. 


\nd show what good men are. 


III. 


II 


She who her lovely offspring eyes 


Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough. 


With tender hopes and fears, 


An' bout a house that's rude an' rough 


0, bless her with a mother's joys, 


The boy might learn to swear; 


But spare a mother's tears ! 


But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught, 




An' get sic fair example straught, 


IT. 


I havena ony fear. 


Their hope— their stay— their darling youth, 


Ye'll catechize him every quirk, 


In manhood's dawning blush — 


An' shore him weel wi' Hell ; 


Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 


An' gar him follow to the kirk — 


Up to a parent's wish ! 


— Ay when ye gang yoursel'. 




If ye then, maun be then 


V. 


Frae hame this comin' Friday; 


The beauteous, seraph sister-band. 


Then please Sir, to lea'e Sir, 


With earnest tears 1 pray, 


The orders wi' your lady. 


Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand — 


III. 
My word of honour I hae gien. 


Guide Thou their steps alway. 




In Paisley John's, that night at e*n, 


VI. 


To meet the Warld's worm ; 


When soon or late they reach that coast, 


' To try to get the twa to gree, 


O'er life's rough ocean driven. 


An' name the airles' an' the fee, 


May they rejoice, no wanderer lost. 


In legal mode an' form : 


A family in Heaven I 


I ken he weel a snick can draw, 


1 The airles^arnest money. 


' 



0^ ROBERT BURNS. 



121 



When simple bodies let him; 
A.n' if a Devil be at a', 

In faith he's sure to' get hira 
To phrase you, an' praise yon, 
Ye ken your Laureat scorns : 
The pray'r s+ill, you share still, 
Of grateful Minstrel Burns. 



LXI. 
TO MR. M'ADAM, 

OP CRAIGEN-GILLAN. 

(It seems thnt Burns, delighted with the praise wnich 
•tie Laird of Craigen-Gillan bestowed on his verses, — 
probably the Jolly Beggars, then in the hands of Wood- 
burn, his steward, — poured out this little unpremeditated 
jatural acknowl«dgment.] 

Sir, o'ei a gill I gat your card, 

I tro"w it made me proud ; 
See wha tak's notice o' the bard 

I lap and cry'd fu' loud. 

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw. 

The senseless, gawky million : 
I'll cock my nose aboon them a' — 

I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan ! 

'Twas noble, Sir; 'twas like yoursel , 

To grant your high protection : 
A great man's smile, ye ken fu' we/ 

Is ay a blest infection. 

Tho oy his' banes -^'^-y in a ttro 

Match'd Mae^-J^ian Sandy! 
On my air ^-^gs thru' dirt and dufc 

I in-^.cjciiuent stand ay. — 

A»a. •'hen those legs to gudf waim kail, 

^i' welcome cannj» bear me ; 
A ;^- ."^yke-side, a sybow-tail. 

And barley-scone shall cheer me. 

fleaven spare you lang to kiss the breath 

0' many flow'ry simmers! 
4.nd bless your bonnie lasses baith, 

I'm tauld they're loosome kimmers ! 

A.nd God bless young Dunaskin's laird. 

The blossom of our gentry ! 
And may he wear an auld man's beard, 

A credit to his country. 

1 Diog«nes. 



LXII. 

ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE 

SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY A TAILOR. 

[The person who in the name of a Tailor took the 
liberty of admonishing Burns about his errors, is gene- 
rally believed to have been William Simpson, the school- 
master of Ochiltree : the verses seem about the measure 
of his capacity, and were attributed at the time to hi« 
hand. The natural poet took advantage of the mask in 
which the made poet concealed himself, ana rained 
such a merciless storm upon him, as would have extio 
guished half the Tailors in Ayrshire, and made the 
amazed dominie 

" Strangely fidge and fyke." 

It was first printed in 1801, by Stewart.] 

What ails ye now, ye lousie b — h, 
To thresh my back at sic a pitch ? 
Losh, man ! hae mercy wi' your natch, 

Your bodkin's bauld, 
I didna suffer ha'f sae much 

Frae Daddie Auld. 

What tho' at times when I grow -Touse, 
I gie their wames a random pou» 
Is that '^ough for you to souse 

Your servant sar. 
Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-buse, 

An' jag-the-flae. 

King Du-nd o' poetic brief, 

Wrong"; t 'mang the lasses sic mischief 

As ,fi ' -I His after life wi' grief. 

An' bluidy rants. 
An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief 

0' lang-syne saunts. 

And maybe, Tam^ for a' my cants. 
My wicked rhymes, an' druken rants, 
I'll gie auld cloven Clootie's haunts 

An unco' slip yet, 
An' enugly sit among the saunts 

At Davie's hip get 

But fegs, the Session says I maun 

Gae fa' upo' anither plan, 

Than garrin lasses cowp the cran 

Clean heels owre b(df, 
And sairly thole thvir mither's bait 

Afore the howdy. 

This leads me on, to tell for sport, 
How I did wi' the Session sort, 



«*M^ 



Auld Clinkum at the :imer port 

Cried three times — "Robin ! 
Oome hither, lad, an' answer for't, 

Ye're blamed forjobbin' " 

VVi' pinch I pat a Sunday's fa'ce on, 
An' snoov'd away before the Session ; 
i made an open fair confession — 

I scorn'd to lee ; 
An' syDP Mess John, beyond expressidu, 

Fell foul o' me. 



LXIII. 
TO J. RANKIN E. 

[With the Laird of Adamhill's persona! character the 
e.uler is already acquainted: the lady about whose 
frailties the rumour alluded to was about to rise, has not 
been named, and it would neither be delicate nor polite 
o guess.] 

I AM a keeper of the law 

In some sma' points, altho' not a* ; 

Some people tell me gin I fa' 

Ae way or ither, 
The breaking of ae point, though sma', 

Breaks a' thegither. 

I hae been in for't ance or twice, 
And winna say o'er far for thrice, 
Yet never met with that surprise 

That broke my rest, 
But now a rumour's like to rise, 

A whaup's V *lie nest. 



LXIY. 
LINES 

WEITTKN ON A BANK-NOTE 

fTiie :;ank-note on whic.i these characteristic lines 
fPAre «r-I.,;se(l, came into the hands of the late James 
8) icie banker in Dumfries: he knew the handwriting 
»f Burns, and kept it as a curiosity. The concluding 
ines point to the year 1786, as the date of the compo- 
f on 1 

Wae wortt thy power, thou cursed leaf 
Fell source >' a my woe an' grief; 



For lack o' thee I've lost my lass, 
For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass. 
I see the children of affliction 
Unaided, through thy cursed restriction 
I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile 
Amid his hapless victim's spoil ; 
And for thy potence vainly wished, 
To crush the villain in the dust. 

For lack o' thee, I leave this much-lov'd sHo?! 

Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. 

B B 



LXV. 

A DREAM. 

"Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blame* wit* 
reason ; 
But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason.* 

On reading, in the public papers, the " Laureate'i 
Ode," with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the autho 
was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself 
transported to the birth-day levee ; and in his dreaming 
fancy made the following "Address." 

[The prudent friends of the poet remonstrated with him 
about this Poem, which they appeared to think woula 
injure his fortunes and stop the royal bounty to which he 
was thought entitled. Mrs. Dunlop, and Mrs. Stewart, 
of Stair, solicited him in vain to omit it in the Edinburgh 
edition of his poems. I know of no poem for which a 
claim of being prophetic would be so successfully sel 
up : :t is full of point as well as of the future. THe alio 
Eions require no comment.] 

Guid-mornin' to your Majesty! 

May Heaven augment your blisses, 
On ev'ry new birth-day ye see, 

A humble p' et wishes I 
My hardship here, at your levee, 

On sic a day as this is. 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 
, Amang thae birth-day dresses 

Sae fine this daj. 



I see ye're complimented thrang. 

By many a lord an' lady ; 
" God save the king !" 's a cuckoo ganf 

That's unco easy said ay ; 
The poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang^ 

But ay unerring steady. 

On sic a day 



Or Tlv.bJ!.KT LUR^S. 



la 



For me, before a monarch's fa*e, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 
^"'or neither pension, post, nor place, 

Am T your humble debtor : 
So, na' reflection on your grace, 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's monie waur been o' the race, 

An i aiblius ine been better 

Than you this day. 

Ti« Tcr: rue, my sov'reign king, 

My skill may weel be doubted : 
But facts are chiels that winna ding. 

An' downa be disputed : 
Your royal nest beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right reft an' clouted, 
And now the third part of the string, 

An' less, will gang about it 

Than did ae day. 

far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation, 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire. 

To rule this mighty nation. 
But faith ! I muckle doubt, nay sire, 

Ye've trusted ministration 
To chaps wha, in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fill'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, 

Her broken phins to plaister; 
four sair tayntion does her fleece, 

Till she ba«i scarce a tester; 
For me, thank God, my life's a lease, 

Nae barfj^ain wearing faster, 
Or, faJtb ! I fear, that, wi' the geese, 

1 shortly boost to pasture 

I' the craft some day, 

T'n no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, 

A ntnne not enry spairges,) 
That he intends to pay your debt. 

An' lessen a" your charges ; 
But, G-d-sake! let nae saving -fit 

Abridge your bonnie barges 

An' boats this day. 

Adieu, my Liege ! may freedom geek 
Beneath your high protection ; 

An' may ye rax corruption's neck, 
And gie her for dissection ! 



But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true afi'ection, 
To pay your Queen, with due respect^ 

My fealty an' subjection 

This great birtJi-day 

Hail, Majesty Most Excellent I 

While nobles strive to please yc, 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gi'es ye ? 
Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, 

Still higher may they heeze ye 
In bliss, till fate some day is sent, 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 

For you, young potentate o' Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails 

An' curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, 

Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie, 

By night or day. 

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 

To mak a noble aiver ; 
So, ye may doucely fill a throne, 

For a' their clish-ma-claver : 
There, him at Agincourt wha shon€. 

Few better were or braver ; 
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John, 

He was an unco shaver 

For monie a day. 

For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg, 

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 
Altho' a ribbon at your lug. 

Wad been a dress completer : 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug, 

Or, trouth ! ye'll stain the mitre 

Some luckless day. 

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 
Ye've lately come athwart her ; 

A glorious galley,' stem an' stern, 
Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter; 

But first hang out, that she'll discern 
Your hymeneal charter, 

1 Alluding to the newspaper account if a certain rojh 
Bailor's amour 



TheD heave aboard your grapple airn, 
An', large upon her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

Ye, lastly, honnie blossoms a'. 

Ye royal lasses dainty, 
Ifeav'n mak you guid as weel as braw, 

An' gie you lads a-plenty : 
liut sneer na British Boys awa', 

For kings are unco scant ay; 
An' German gentles are but sma', 

They're better just than want ay 
On onie day. 

God bless you a' ! consider now, 

Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
But ere the course o' life be thro', 

It may be bitter sautet : 
An' I hae seen their coggie fou, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 



LXVI. 

A BAED'S EPITAPH. 

[This beautiful and affecting poem was printed in the 

Ki.marnock edition: Wordsworth writes with his usual 
taste and feeling about it : " Whom did the poet intend 
should be thought of, as occupying that grave, over 
which, after modestly setting forth the moral discernment 
and warm affections of the ' poor inhabitant' it is supposed 
to be inscribed that 

' Thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stained his name !' 
Whc but himself— himself anticipating the Dut too pro- 
bable termination of his own course ? Here is a sincere 
and solemn avowal — a confession at once devout, poeti- 
eal and human — a history in the shape of a prophecy! 
What more was i-equircd of the r iographer, than to have 
8Tit h-ls seal lii ine writing, testifying that the foreboding 
aaa been realized and thai the record jvas authentic ?"] 

J* there a whim-inspired fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 

Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song. 

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 



That weekly this area throng, 

0, p ass not by I 

But with a f rater-feeling strong. 

Here heave a sigh 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career. 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and, through the startinig toaTt 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below 

Was quick to learn and wise to know, 

And keenly felt the friendly glow. 

And softer flame, 
But thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stain' d his nanxet 

Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this eaHhly hole, 

In low pursuit ; 
Ejiow, prudent, cautious self-coo trol, 

Is wisdom's root. 



LXVII. 
THE TWA DOGS. 

A TALE 

[Cromek, an anxious and curious inquirer, informed 
me, that the Twa Dogs was in a half-finished state, whea 
the poet consulted John Wilson, the printer, about the 
Kilmarnock edition. On looking over the manuscripts, 
the printer, with a sagacity common to his profession, 
said, "The Address to the Deil" and '' The Holy Fair" 
were grand things, but it would be hs well to have a 
calmer and sedater strain, to put at the front of the 
volume. Burns was struck with the remark, and on hifl 
way home to Mossgiel, completed the Poem, and took it 
next day to Kilmarnock, much to the satisfaction ol 
"Wee Johnnie." On the 17th of February Burns B?iy» 
to John Richmond, of Mauchline, "I have coinplatdl 
my Poem of the Twa Dogs, but have nit shown it to th* 
world." It is difficult to fix the dates w.:h anytliing lik « 
accuracy, to compositions which are noi struck cff at 
one heat of the fancy. " Luath was me of the poet'i 
dogs, which some person had wantonly killed," sayi 
Gilbert Burns; " but Caesar was merely the creature of 
the imagination." The Ettrick Shepherd, a judge of 
collies, says that Luath is true to the Jife, and that man^ 
a hundred times he has seen the dogs bark for ver7 oy 
when the cottage children were merry.] 

'TwAS in that place o' Scotland's isle 
That bears the name o' Anld King Coil, 



OF ROBERT BURNS. m 


CTpDii a bonnie day in June, 


An' when the gentry's life I saw, 


When wearing through the afternoon, 


What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 


Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 




j'orgather'd ance upon a time. 


Our laird gets in his racked rents. 


The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar, 


His coals, his kain, and a' his stents ; 


Was keepit for his honour's pleasure ; 


He rises when he likes himsel' ; 


Eis hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 


His flunkies answer at the bell ; 


Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 


He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ', 


But whalpit some place far abroad, 


He draws a bonnie silken purse 


Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 


As lang's my tail, whare, through the ?te«lu 




The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 


His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar 






Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling. 


Show'd him the gentleman and scholar ; 
But though ho was o' high degree. 
The fient a pride -nae pride had he ; 




At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; 
An' though the gentry first are stechin, 
Yet even the ha' folk fill their pechan 


But wad hae spent an hour caressin', 


Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trafhtrie. 


Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin'. 


That's little short o' downright wastrie. 


At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 




Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, 


Our whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless blf, it eats a dinner. 


And stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi' him. 


Better than ony tenant man 




His honour has in a' the Ian' ; 


The tither was a ploughman's collie, 


An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in. 


A rhyming, ranting, raving billie. 


I own it's past my comprehension 


Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, 




And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 


LUATH. 


After some dog in Highland sang,i 


Trowth, Csesar, whyles they're fash't eneugrh 


Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. 


A co-tter howkin in a sheugh. 




Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke, 


He was a gash an' faithful tyke, 


Baring a quarry, and sic like ; 


As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. 


Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 


His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 


A smytrie o' wee duddie weans. 


Ay gat him friends in ilka place. 


An' nought but his han' darg, to keep 


His breast was white, his touzie back 


Them right and tight in thack an' rape. 


Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 




His gaucie tail, wi' upward curl, 


An' when they meet wi' sair disaste<.s. 


Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl. 


Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, 




Ye maist wad think a wee touch langer 


Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither. 


An' they maun starve o' cauld and hung^ai 


An' unco pack an' thick thegither; 


But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, 


Wi' social nose whyles snuff 'd and snowkit, 


They're maistly wonderfu' contented : 


Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit ; 


An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies. 


Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, 


Are bred in sic a way as this is. 


\n' worry'd ither in diversion; 




Until wi' daffin weary grown. 


C^SAR 


Upon a knowe they sat them dowtt; 


But then to see how ye're negleckit, 


And there began a lang digression 


How huff 'd, and cuff'd, and distespeckit ' 


About the lords o' the creation. 


L — d, man, our gentry care as little 




For delvers, ditchers, an' sic jfittle ; 


C^SAR. 


They gfing as saucy by poor folk, 


I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 


As I wad by a stinking brock. 


What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; 


I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day, 


H:uchullin'8 dog in Ossian's Fingal. 


An' mony a time my heart's been waOt 



M 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash: 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun stau', wi' aspect humble, 
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble ! 

I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches ! 

LUATH. 

They're no sae wretched's ane wad think; 
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, 
The view o't gies them little fright. 
Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
They're ay in less or mair provided ; 
An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans, an' faithfu' wives ; 
The prattling things are just their pride^ 
That sweetens a' their fire-side ; 
An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak' the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside their private cares, 
To mind the Kirk and State afi'airs : 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests ; 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts ; 
Or tell what new taxation's comin', 
And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, 
They get the jovial, ranting kirns, 
When rural life, o' ev'ry station. 
Unite in common recreation ; 
Love blinks. Wit slaps, an' social Mirth 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty win's; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream. 
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam 
The luntin pipe, an sneeshin mill, 
Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, 
The young anes rantin' thro' the house, — 
My heart has been sae fain to see them. 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said. 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock 
0' decent, honest, fawsont folk. 



Are riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel' the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle master, 
Wha aiblins, thrang a parliamentin'. 
For Britain's guid his saul wdentin'— - 



Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ! 

For Britain's guid! guid faith, I doubt itl 

Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him. 

An' saying, aye oi no's they bid him , 

At operas an' plays parading, 

Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading; 

Or may be, in a frolic daft, 

To Hague or Calais takes a waft. 

To mak a tour, an' tak' a whirl, 

To learn bon ton, an' see the worl'. 

There, at Vienna or Versailles, 

He rives his father's auld entails ; 

Or by Madrid he takes the rout, 

To thrum guitars, an' fecht wi' nowt; 

Or down Italian vista startles, 

"Wh-re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles 

Then bouses drumly German water, 

To mak' himsel' look fair and fatter, 

An' clear the consequential sorrows. 

Love-gifts of carnival signoras. 

For Britain's guid ! — for her destruction 

Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. 

LUATH. 

Hech, man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last ! 

0, would they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themsels wi' countra eports, 
It wad for ev'ry ane be better, 
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Ci tter! 
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billitS, 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows ; 
Except for breakin' o' their timmer. 
Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer. 
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock. 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, Master Caesar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure? 
Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them 
The vera thought o't need na fear them 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



13a 



C^SAB. 

L- -d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true, they needua starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat; 
Thty've nae sair wark to craze their Oanes, 
An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes; 
But human bodies are sic fools. 
For a' their colleges and schools. 
That when nae real ills perplex them. 
They mak enow themsels to vex them ; 
j^n' ay the less they hae to stur<- them. 
In like proportion, less will hurt them. 

A country fellow at the pleugh, 

His acres till'd, he's right eneugh j 

A country girl at her wheel. 

Her dizzen's done, ahe's unco weel: 

But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 

Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst. 

They loiter. Jouncing, lank, an' lazy; 

Tho' deiJ haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 

Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; 

Their uights unquiet, lang, an' restless ; 

An' eren their sports, their balls an' races, 

Their galloping thro' public places, 

There s sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 

The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 

The men cast out in party matches, 

Then sowther a' in deep debauches ; 

Ae night they're mad wi' drink and wh-ring, 

Niest day their life is past enduring. 

The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters. 

As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 

But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 

They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 

Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, 

They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 

Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks 

i ore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 

Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 

An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. 

Th sre's some exception, man an' woman ; 
Bat this is Gentry's life in common. 

By thi:i, the sun was out o' sight, 
An' larker gloaming brought the night : 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone; 
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan; 
When up they gat, and shook their lugs, 
Rejoic'd they were na men, but dogs; 
An' each took aff his several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



LXVIIl. 

LINES 

ON 

MEETING WITH LORD DAER. 

["The first time I saw Robert Burns,'' says Dvigili 
Stewart, "was on the 23d of October, 17b6, wh<n li 
dined at' my house in Ayrshire, together with our CGin- 
mon friend, John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauchhne, to 
whom I am indebted for the pleasure of his ac-juaiut- 
ance. My excellent and much-lamented friend, ihe lat6 
Basil, Lord Daer, happened to arrive at Catnne the sam* 
day, and, by the kindness and frankness of his manners, 
left an impression on the mind of the poet whicli waa 
never effaced. The verses which the poet wrote on the 
occasion are amcmg the most imperfect of his pieces, but 
a few stanzas may perhaps be a matter of curiosity, both 
on account of the character to which they relate and the 
light which they throw on the situation and the feelings 
of the writer before his name was known to the public." 
Basil, Lord Daer, the uncle of the present Earl of Sal 
kirk, was born in the year 1769, at the tamily seat of Si. 
Mary's Isle : he distinguished himself early at school 
and at college excelled in literature and science ; he ha - 
a greater regard for democracy than was then reckone«_ 
consistent with his birth and rank. He was, when Burnt 
met him, in his twenty-third year ; was very tall, some- 
thing careless in his dress, and had the taste and talent 
common to his distinguished family. He died in h»« 
thirty-third year.] 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprachled up the brae, 

I dinner'd wi' a Lord. 

I've been at druken writers' feasts, 
Nay, been bitch-fou' 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken : 
I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, 
"When mighty squireships of the quorum 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi' a Lord — stand out, my shin ! 
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son ! — 

Up higher yet, my bonnet! 
And sic a Lord ! — lang Scotch ells twa. 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', 

As I look o'er my sonnet 

But, oh! for Hogarth's magic pow'rl 
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r, 

And how he star'd and stammer . 
When goavan, as if led wi' branks, 
An' stumpan on his ploughman shanks, 

He in the parlour hammer'd 



136 THE POETICAL WORKS 


I sidling shelter'd in a nook, 


II. 


An' at his lordship steal't a look, 


Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 


Like some portentous omen ; 


As busy Trade his labour plies ; 


Except good sense and social glee, 


There Architecture's noble pride 


An' (what surpris'd me) modesty, 


Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 


I marked nought uncommon. 


Here Justice, from her native skies. 




High wields her balance and her rod ; 


I watch' d the symptoms o' the great, 


There Learning, with his eagl^e eyea^ 


The gentxC pride, the lordly state, 


Seeks Science in her coy abode. 


The arrogant assuming ; 




The fient a pride, nae pride had he. 


III. 


Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see. 


Thy sons, Edina 1 social, kind, 


Mair than an honest ploughman. 


With open arms the stranger h.til ; 




Their views enlarg'd, their liberal mind. 


Then from his lordship I shall learn, 


Above the narrow, rural vale ; 


Henceforth to meet -with unconcern 


Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 


One rank as weel's another ; 


Or modest merit's silent claim ; 


Nae honest worthy man need care 


And never may their sources fail ! 


To meet with noble youthful Daer, 


And never envy blot their name ! 


For he but meets a brother. 


I V 




Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, 




Gay as the gilded summer sky, 






Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. 




Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy ! 


LXIX. 


Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 




Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine ; 


ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 


I see the Sire of Love on high, 




And own his work indeed divine 1 


['' I enclose you two poems," said Burns to his friend 




Ohalmers, " which I have carded and spun since I passed 




Glenbnck. One b.ank in the Address to Edinburgh, 


V, 


' Fair B — ,' is the heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to 


There, watching high the least alarms. 


Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour 
to be more than once. There has not been anything 


Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar j 


nearly like her, in a.l the combinations of beauty, grace, 


Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms, 


and goodness the great Creator has formed, since Milton's 


And mark'd with many a seamy scar : 


Eve, on the first day of her existence." Lord Monboddo 


The pond'rous wall and massy bar, 


made himself ridiculous by his speculations on human 
nature, and acceptable by his kindly manners and sup- 


Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, 


pers in the manner of the ancients, where his viands were 


Have oft withstood assailing war. 


spread under ambrosial lights, and his Falernian was 


And oft rep ell' d th' invader's shock. 


wreatiied with flowers. At these suppers Burns some- 




times made his appearance. The "Address" was first 


VI. 


punted in the FJdinburgh edition : the poet's hopes were 


i:er high, and his compliments, both to town and people, 


With awe-struck thought, and pitying tear* 


?e. 9 e.'egan and happy.] 


I view that noble, stately dome, 




Where Scotia's kings of other years. 


I. 


Fam'd heroes! had their royal home; 


Edina ! Scotia's darling seat! 


Alas, how chang'd the times to come ! 


All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. 


Their royal name low in the dust ! 


Where once beneath a monarch's feet 


Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam. 


Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 


Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just' 


From marking wildly-seatter'd flow'rs, 




As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 


VII. 


knd singing, ""one, the ling'ring hours, 


Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 


I shelter ia thy honour'd shad^.. 


Whose ancestors, in days of yore, 



OF ROBEET BURNS. 



137 



Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 
Olc" Sc.tia's bloody lion bore; 

fiy'r I who sing in rustic lore, 

Haply, my sires have left their shed, 

And fac d grim danger's loudest roar, 
Hjld-foilowiug where your fathers led 1 

VIII. 

Eiina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
Frommarkingwildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 



LXX. 

EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. 

[Major Logan, of Camlarg, lived, when this hasty 
Poem was written, with his mother and sister at Park- 
house, near Ayr. He was a good musician, a joyous 
companion, and something of a vrit. The Epistle was 
P'mted, for the first time, in my edition of Burns, in 1834, 
fc«»d since then no other editioH has wanted it.] 

Hatl, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie ! 
Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly 
To every fiddling, rhyming billie, 

We never heed, 
But tak' it like the unback'd filly, 

Proud o' her speed. 

When idly goavan whyles we saunter 
ilrr, fancy barks, awa' we canter • 

Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter, 

Some black bog-hole, 
Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter 

We're forced to thole. 

P ile be your heart ! Hale be your fiddle ! 
Lacg may your elbuck jink and diddle, 
1 J cheer you through the weary widdle 

0' this wild warl', 
Unti; vou on a crummock driddle 

A gray-hair'd carL 

Oorae wealth, come poortith, late or soon, 
Heaven send your heart-strings ay in tune, 
♦ And screw your temper pins aboon 

A fifth or mair, 
The melancholious, lazy croon 

0' cankrie care. 



May still your life from day to day 
Nae *'lente largo" in the play, 
But " allegretto forte" gay 

Harmonious flow : 
A sweeping, kindling, bauld stfaUispey- 

Encore! Brave I 

A blessing on the cheery gang 
Wha dearly like a jig or sang. 
An' never think o' right un' wrang 

By square an' rule. 
But as the clegs o' feeling stang 

Are wise or fooL 

My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase 
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, 
Wha count on poortith as disgrace — 

Their tuneless hearts I 
May fireside discords jar a base 

To a' their parts ! 

But come, your hand, my careless brither« 
r th' ither warl', if there's anither. 
An' that there is I've little swither 

About the matter ; 
We cheek for chow shall jog thegither, 

I'se ne'er bid better. 

We've faults and failings — granted clearly, 
We're frail backsliding mortals merely, 
Eve's bonny squad, priests wyte them sheerlj 

For our grand fa' ; 
But still, but still, I like them dearly — 

God bless them a' I 

Ochon ! for poor Castalian drinkers, 
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers, 
The witching curs'd delicious blinkers 

Hae put me hyte. 
And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, 

Wi' girnan spite. 

But by yon moon ! — and that's high swearin'- 
An' every star within my hearin' ! 
An' by her een wha was a dear ane I 

I'll ne'er forget j 
I hope to gie the j ads a clearin' 

In fair play y«»* 

My loss I mourn, but not repent it, 
I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it, 
Ance to the Indies I were wonted. 

Some cantraip hoai, 
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted, 

Then, vive rumour/ 



lag 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Faitea mes baisemains respectueuse, 

To sentimeptal sister Susie, 

in' honest Lucky ; no to roose you, 

Ye may be proud, 
rhat 9\^ a couple fate allows ye 

To grace your blood. 

tJae yuair at present can I measure, 

Ad' trowth my rhymin' ware's nae treasare: 

6^t when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure, 

Be't light, be't dark, 
S»'r Bard will do himself the pleasure 

To call at Park. 

Robert Burns. 
McK^i^', SOih October J 1786. 



LXXI. 
THE BRIGS OF AYR, 

A POEM, 
INSCRIBED TO J. BAILANTYNE, ESQ., AYB. 

[Bi\riis took the hint of this Poem from the Planestanes 
und O'iuseway of Feigusson, but all that lends it life and 
feekiif, beK>ngs to his ov/n heart and his native Ayr • ho 
wrote it for iha second edition of his Poems, and in com- 
pliment to the patrons of his genius in the west. Ballan- 
•^yne, to whom the Poem is inscribed, wasgenerous when 
the distresses of his farming speculations pressed upon 
him: others of his friends figure in the scene: Mont- 
l^omery's courage, the learning of Dugald Stewart, and 
condescension and kindness of Mrs. General Stewart, 
of Stair, are graiefuily recorded.] 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 
Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough ; 
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, 
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn 

bush ; 
Ihc soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill. 
Or deep-ton'd plovers,, gray, wild-whistling o*©^ 

the hill ; 
i§b%ll Le, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, 
Tg harly independence bravely bred, 
By early poverty to hardship steel'd, 
And t»-ain'd to arms in stern misfortune's fic'd — 
Bh&i'l he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 
Or labour hard the panegyric close, 
VV^ith all the venal soul of dedicating prose T 

4 noted tav«in at the auld Brij^ enu. 



No ! though his artless strains he rudel/ singt, 
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the stringet, 
He glows with all the spirit of the Ban', 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear jceward 1 
Still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace, 
Skill'd in the secret to bestow with gra-'.e ; 
When Ballantyne befriends his humble nam©, 
And hands the rustic stranger up to f&ma, 
With heartfelt throes his grateful bosoA* swellSg 
The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 



'Twas when the stacks get on their w ktMt hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil-w 9:1 crap ; 
Potato-bings are snugged up frae skait!i 
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds, an' flow'rs' delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen 

piles, 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak. 
The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone reek • 
The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie. 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) 
Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs ; 
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 
Except, perhaps, the robin's whistling glee, 
Proud 0' the height 0' some bit half-lang tree ; 
The hoary morns precede the sunny days. 
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noon-tide 

blaie. 
While thick the gossamer waves wanton in. the 

rays. 
'Twas in tha* seaso?*, when a simple bard, 
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 
Ae night, within the ancient b^ugh of Ayr, 
By whim inspired, or haply prcst wi' care. 
He left his bed, and took his wayward rcut, 
And down by Simpson's' wheel'd the left »bo«i ; 
(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate 
To witness what I after shall narrate ; 
Or whether, rapt in meditation high. 
He wander'd out he knew not where nor why) 
The drowsy Dungeon-clock,^ had nu«iber d two, 
And Wallace Tow'r^ had sworn the fact was true : 
The tid^-swe^'n Firth, with sullen sounding roar, 
Through the still night dash'd hoarse alang thi 
phore 

« Ihn tw<» «te«p!9s. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



U% 



A.11 else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e : 
riie silent moon shone high o'ei' tow'r and tree: 
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering 
stream. — 

When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning Bard, 

The clanging sugh of "whistling wings is heard ; 

Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, 

Swift as the gos ' drives on the wheeling hare ; 

A.ne on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, 

The ither flutters o'er the rising piers: 

Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd 

The Sprites that owre the brigs of Ayr preside. 

(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 

And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; 

Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain 

them, 
And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them.) 
Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race, 
The very wrinkles gothic in his face : 
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, 
Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 
New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, 
That he at Lon'on, frae ane Adams got ; 
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 
Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 
The Goth was stalking round with anxious 

search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch ; — 
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, 
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ! 
Wi' thievelesa sneer to see his modish mien, 
He, down the water, gies him this guid-e'en : — 

AULD BRIG. 

1 doubt na', frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep- 

shank, 
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank ! 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho' faith, that day I doubt ye'll never see ; 
There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle, 
Bjme fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BRIO. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street, 
Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they 
meet — 

• The go8-hawk or falcon. 

2 A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. 

3 Tlie banks of Garpal Water is one of the tew places 
th'i West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring be- 



Your ruin'd formless hulk o' stane an' lime, 
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ' 
There's men o' taste wou'd tak the DucaV 

stream,^ 
Tho' they should cast the vera sark and swim-^ 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' tb« 

view 
Of sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIO. 

Conceited gowk ! pufF'd up wi' windy 

pride ! — 
This mony a year I've stood the flood an' tide • 
And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairn I 
As yet ye little ken about the matter. 
But twa-three winters will inform ye better. 
When heavy, dark, continued a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains; 
When from the hills where springs the brawling 

Coil, 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil. 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorlani 

course. 
Or haunted Garpal^ draws his feeble source, 
Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowe*« 
In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes i 
While crashing ice born on the roaring speat. 
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gatej 
And from Glenbuck,^ down to the Ratton-key,* 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea- 
Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise! 
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, [skies. 
That Architecture's noble art is lost ! 

NEW BRIO. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must saj*l 

o't! 
The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gat* 

o't! 
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, 
Hanging with threat'ning jut like precipices ; 
O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, 
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves ; 
Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture ires^ 
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; 
Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream, 
The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 

ings, known by the name of Ghalsts, still continue p«r 
tinaciously to inhabit. 

4 The source of the river Ayr. 

6 A small landing-place above the krije key. 



140 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Forms migLt be worshipp'd on the bended knee, 
A.nd still the second dread command be free, 
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or 

sea. 
Mansions that -would disgrace the building 

taste 
Of any mason reptile, bird or beast ; 
Fit only for a doited monkish race, 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace ; 
Or cuifs of later times wha held the notion 
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; 
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection ! 
And soon may they expire, unblest with resur- 
rection ! 

AULD BRIG. 

ye, my dear-remember'd ancient yealings. 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feel- 
ings! 
Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay ; 
Ye dainty Deacons and ye douce Conveeners, 
To whom our moderns ar-e but causey-cleaners : 
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town; 
Ye godly Brethren o' the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gie your hurdles to the smiters ; 
And (what would now be strange) ye godly 

writers ; 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo. 
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexa- 
tion, 
To see eacn melancholy alteration; 
And, agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base, degen'rate race ! 
Nae langer rev'rend men, their country's glory. 
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid 

story ! 
Nae langer thrifty citizens an' douce, 
Meet owre a pint, or in the council-house ; 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gentry, 
The herryment and ruin of the country; 
Men three parts made by tailors and by bar- 
bers 
Hha w^aste your weel-Lain'd gear on d — d new 
Brigs and Harbours! 

NEW BRIO 

Nr)w baud you there! for faith ye've said 
enough, 
And muckle mair than ye can mak to through; 
Is for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, 
Jorbies and Clergy, are a shot right kittle : 



But under favour o' your langer beard, 

Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd : 

To liken them to your auld-warld squad, 

I must needs say, comparisons are odd. 

In Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can have a handle 

To mouth ' a citizen,' a term o' scandal ; 

Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, 

la all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 

Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops sai 

raisins. 
Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins, 
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp. 
Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp. 
And would to Common-sense for once betray'c 

them, 
Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them 



Wht*t farther clishmaclaver might been said. 
What bloody wars, if Spirites had blood to shed, 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright : 
Adown the glitt'ring stream they featly.danc'd; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd 
They footed owre the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : 
While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung.— . 
had M'Lauchlan,' thairm-inspiring Sage, 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage. 
When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore with 

highland rage ; 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his highland lug been nobler fir'd, 
And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch 

inspir'd ! 
No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard, 
Harmonious concert rung in every part. 
While simple melody pour'd moving on 0.« 

heart. 

The Genius of the stream in front appears 
A venerable Chief advanc'd in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown' d. 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring, 
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 



1 A well known performer of Scottish mr.sie on thf 
violin. 



All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yellow Autumn, wreath'd with nodding 

corn; 
Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary 

show. 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow. 
Next follow'd Courage, with his martial stride, 
Froai where the Feal wild woody coverts hide ; 
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode : 
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel 

wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kind- 
ling wrath. 



Lxxn. 



I HE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ., 

OF ARNISTON, 
LATB LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF SESSION. 

[At the request of Advocate Hay, Burns composed this 
Poem, in the hope that it might interest the pqwerful 
family of Dundas in his fortunes. I found it inserted in 
the handwriting of the poet, in an interleaved copy of 
his Poems, which he presented to Dr. Geddes, accompa. 
nied by tlie foll^nving surly note : — '= The foregoing Poem 
has some tolerable lines in it, but the incurable wound 
of my pride will not suffer me to correct, or even peruse 
t. I sent a copy of it with my best prose letter to the 
son of the great man, the theme of the piece, by the 
hands of one of the noblest men in God's world, Alexan- 
der Wood, surgeon : when, behold ! his solicitorship 
took no more notice of my Poem, or of me, than I had 
been a strolling fidoler who had made free with his !ady's 
ftgn.e, for a silly new ^a»!. Did the fellow imagine that 
I looked for any dirty gmtuity?" Tliis Robert Dundas 
was the elder brother of that Lord Melville to whose 
hands, soon after these lines were written, all the govern- 
ment patronage in Scotland was confided, and who, when 
the name of Bums was mentioned, pushed the wine to 
Pitt, and said nothing. The poem was first printed by 
3ie, in 1834.] 

Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks 
Bhun the fierce storms among the sheltering 

rocks ; 
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains. 
The srathering floods burst o'er the distant plains ; 



Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan ; 
The hollow caves return a sullen moan. 

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests and ye caves, 
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves I 
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or ej% 
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly ; 
Where to the whistling blast and waters' rowr 
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore. 

heavy loss, thy country ill could bear ! 
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair! 
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, 
Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd her rod! 
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow 
She sunk, abandon'd to the wildest woe. 

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den. 
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men : 
See from this cavern grim Oppression rise, 
And throw on poverty his cruel eyes ; 
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly. 
And stifle, dark, the feebly -bursting cry* 

Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes, 
Rousing elate in these degenerate times; 
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey. 
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way: 
While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue 
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong* 
Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale, 
And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied 
wail ! 

Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains, 
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains : 
Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll I 
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. 
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign. 
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mint, 
To mourn the woes my country must endura, 
That wound degenerate ages cannot cur«. 



LXXIII. 

ON BEADING IN A NEWSPAPER 

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, E3Q. 

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A I'ARTICTDLAR FRIENB 
OF THE author's. 

[John M'Leod was of the ancient family of Raza, anti 
brotlier to that Isabella M'Leod, for whom Burns, ia 
his correspondence, expressed i^reat regard. The littli 



142 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



poem, when first printed, consisted of six verses : I found 
% seventh in tlie M'Murdo Manuscripts, the fifth in this 
edition, along with an intimation in prose, that the 
M'Leod family had endured many unmerited misfortunes. 
I observe that Sir Harris Nicolas has rejected this new 
rerse, because, he says, it repeats the same sentiment as 
the (me which precedes it. I think differently, and have 
retaiuotJ it] 

g\D thy tale, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew 
The morning rose may blow ; 

But cold successive noontide blasts 
May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 

The sun propitious smil'd; 
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds 

Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the bosom chords 

That nature finest strung : 
So Isabella's heart was form'd, 

And so that heart was wrung. 

Were it in the poet's power. 
Strong as he shares the grief 

That pierces Isabella's heart, 
To give that heart relief! 

Dread Omnipotence, alone. 
Can heal the wound He gave ; 

Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, 
And fear no withering blast , 

There Isabella's spotless worth 
Shall happy be at last. 



LXXIV. 

TO MISS LOGAN, 
miH beattie's poems for a new year's gift. 

Jan. 1, 1787. 

[Burns .vas fond of writing compliments in books, and 
giving them in presents among his fair friends. Mi»« 
fjogan, of Park house, was sister to Major Logan, of 
Ganrilarg, and the " sentimental sister Susie," of the 
Epistie to her brnther. Both these names were early 
iroDped out of ♦^e poet's coi sspcmdence.] 



Again the silent wheels of titoe 
Their annual round have driv'n, 

And you, tho' scarce in maiden prim^ 
Are so much nearer Heav'n. 

No gifts have I from Indian 3oasts 

The infant year to hail : 
I send you more than India leasts 

In Edwin's simple tale, 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 
Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ; 

But may, dear maid, each lover prove 
An Edwin still to you ! 



LXXV. 

THE AMERICi\N WAR. 

A FRAGMENT. 

[Dr. Blsir said that the politics of Burns smelt of tlw 
smithy, which, interpreted, means, that they were un 
statesman-like, and worthy of a country ale-house, an«, 
an audience of peasants. The Poem gives us a striking 
picture of the humorous and familiar way in which the 
hinds and husbandmen of Scotland handle national topics '. 
the smithy is a favcwrite resort, during the winter even- 
ings, of rustic politicians ; and national affairs and parish 
scandal are alike discussed. Burns was in those days 
and some time after, a vehement lory : his y^miratlo* 
of" Chatham's Boy," called down on hiaa tx-* lusty in 
dignation of the republican Ritson.] 



When Guildford good our pilot stooa, 

And did our hellim thraw, man, ^ 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea, 

Within America, man : 
Then up they gat the maslrin-pat, 

And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
An' did nae less in full Congress^ 

Than quite refuse our law, man 



Then thro' the lakes Montgomery ttVe* 

I wat he was na slaw, man ; 
Down Lowrie's burn he took a tur^ 

And Carleton did ca', man; 
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, 

Montgomery-like did fa', man, 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Amang his en'mies a', man. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



14t 



III. 

Poor Tammy Gage, "irithin a cage, 

Was kept at Boston ha', man ; 
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe 

For Philadelphia, man ; 
Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin 

Guid Christian blood to draw, man: 
Put at New York, wi' kni^o an' fork, 

Sir-loin he hacked sma', man. 

IV. 

Burgoyne gaed tip, like spur an' whip, 

Till Fraser brave did fa', man, 
Then lost his way, ae misty day. 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 
Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought, 

An' did the buckskins claw, man ; 
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save. 

He hung it to the wa', man. 



TJien Montague, an' Guilford, too. 

Began to fear a fa', man ; 
And Sackville dour, wha stood the stoure, 

The German Chief to thraw, man ; 
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a', man ; 
^n' Charlie Fox threw by the box. 

An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 



Then Rockingham took up the game. 

Till death did on him ca', man ; 
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, 

Conform to gospel law, man ; 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise. 

They did his measures thraw, man, 
For North an' Fox united stocks. 

An' bore him to ihn wa', man. 

VII. 

The- imbs an' hearts were Charli j's carteSi 

H* swept the stakes awa', man, 
till the diamond's ace, of Indian race. 

Led him a s^'w faux pas, man ; 
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads. 

On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; 
A.n' Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, 

** Up, Willie, waur them a', man !" 

VIII. 

Cehin<:* the throne then Grenville's gone, 
A secret word oi twa, man; 



While slee Dundas arous'd the class. 
Be-north the Roman wa', man : 

An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, 
(Inspired Bardies saw, man) 

Wi' kindling eyes cry'd "Willie, rise I 
Would I hae fear'd them a', man V 



But, word an' blow. North, Fox, and Co., 

Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man, 
Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise 

Behind him in a raw, man ; 
An' Caledon threw by the drone. 

An' did her whittle draw, man ; 
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood 

To make it guid in law, man. 
***** 



Lxxvn. 

THE DEAN OF FACULTY 

A NEW BALLAD. 

[The Hal and Bob of these satiric lines were He^r^ 
Erskine, and Robert Dundas : and their contention \f»S) 
as the verses intimate, for the place of Dean of the Fa- 
culty of Advocates: Erskine was successful. It is sup< 
posed that in characterizing Dundas, the poet remem 
bered " the incurable wound which his pride had got' 
in the affair of the elegiac verses on the death of the eldei 
Dundas. The poem first appeared in the Reliques of 
Burns.] 



Dire was the hate at old Harlaw, 

That Scot to Scot did carry ; 
And dire the discord Langside saw 

For beauteous, hapless Mary : 
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot, 

Or were more in fury seen. Sir, 
Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job 

Who should be Faculty's Dean^ Sir. — 



II. 

This Hal for genius, wit, and lore. 

Among the first was number'd; 
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store. 

Commandment tenth remember'd. — 
Yet simple Bob the victory got, 

And won his heart's desire ; 
Which shows Ihat heaven can boil the pot^ 

Though th« devil p — s in the firo.— 



144 



THE POETICAL WOf.KS 



III. 

Squire Hal besides had in this case 

Pretensions rather brassy, 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualifications saucy ; 
So, their worships of the Faculty, 

Quite sick of merit's rudeness, 
Cli:>se one who should owe it all, d'ye se©, 

To their gratis grace and goodness. — 

IV. 

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight 

Of a son of Circumcision, 
So may be, on this Pisgah height, 

Bob's purblind, mental vision : 
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet 

Till for eloquence you hail him, 
And swear he has the angel met 

That met the Ass of Balaam. 



LXXVII. 

TO A LADY, 

««riTH A. PRESENT OF A PAIS OF DRINK)NG-G1 ASSES, 

[To Mrs. M'Lehose, of Edinburgh, the poet presented 
ihe dn ikingf-glasses alluded to in the verses: they are, 
•t seerais, still preserved, and the lady on occasions of high 
festival, indulges, it is said, favourite visiters with a 
iraught from them of "The blood of Shiraz' scorched 
fine."] 

Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, 

And Queen of Poetesses ; 
Clarinda, take this little booYi, 

This humble pair of glasses. 

And fill them high with generous juice, 

As generous as your mind ; 
And pledge me in the generous toast — 

*< The whole of human kind !" 

'< To those who love us !" — second fill; 

But not to those whom we love ; 
Lest we love those who love not us ! — 

\ third — " to thee and me, love !" 



LXXVIII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[This is the lady of the drinkmg-glasses ; the Mrs Mac 
of many a toast among the poet's acquaintances. She 
was, in those days, young and beautiful, and we fear a 
little giddy, since she indulged in that sentimental aiaci 
platonic flirtation with the poe*, contairad in the vvelW 
known letters to Clannda. The letters, after the poet*l 
death, appeared in print withot.t her permission : she ou- 
tained an injunction against the publication, which still 
remains in force, but her anger seems to ha ,e been les« 
a matter of taste than of whim, for the ii junction liai 
been i<,lk)we i to slumber in the case of some eJi^or* 
though it has l»«tn enforced against others.] 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 

The measnr'd time is run! 
The wretch >>e^eath the dreary pole 

So marks his lp.test sun. 

To what dark cave of f^o'^en night 

Shall poor Sylvandwr hie; 
Depriv'd of thee, his liff» and light. 

The sun of all his joy. 

We part — but, by these precious drjpw 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex. 

Has blest my glorious day ; 
And shall a glimmering planet ^x 

My worship to its ray? 



LXXIX. 
VERSES 

WRITTEN UNDER m PORTRAIT OP FERGTTSSON, THl 
POET, IN A CO^y t F THAT AUTHOR'S WORKS PRB- 
SENTED TO A YO NG LADY. 

[Who the young lady wr-s to whom the poet. j,resented 
the portrait and Poems of J^h* ill-fated Fergusson, wf 
have not been told. The verjses are dated Edinburghj 
March 19th, 1787.] 

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'a 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure 
thou my elder brother in misfortune, 
By far my elder brother in the muses, 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
Why is the bard unpitied by the world. 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasurei ^ 



UF KOBERT BURNS. 



Ub 



LXXX. 



PROLOGUE 



•POKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT, 
Monday, 16 April, 1787. 

•"The Woorts for whom this Prologue was Avritten, was 
i. those days a popular actor in Edinburgh. He had 
r)ther claims on Burns : he had been the friend as well 
is comrade ot poor Fergusson, and possessed some 
poetical talent He died in Edinburgh, Decemoer 14th, 
1802 .J 

When by a generous Public's kind acclaim, 
That dearest meed is granted — honest fame; 
When here your favour is the actor's lot, 
Nor even the man in private life forgot ; 
What breast so dead to heavenly virtue's glow, 
But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe ? 

Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng, 
ft needs no Siddons' powers in Southerne's song; 
But here an ancient nation fam'd afar, 
For genius, learning high, as great in war — 
Hail, Caledonia, name for ever de\r ! 
Before whose sons I'm honoured to appeir! 
Where every science — every noblfr- art — 
That can inform the mind, or mvr<i the heart, 
Is known ; as grateful nations o^f bave found 
Far as the rude barbarian mark'i the bound. 
Philosophy, no idle pedant dreim. 
Here holds her search by h-e^ven-taught Rea- 
son's beam; 
Here History paints, with f V ffB,nce and force, 
The tide of Empires' fluct t'».^ing course ; 
Here Douglas forms wild ."^ip.kspeare into plan. 
And Harley' rouses all the g^od in man. 
When well-form'd taste and sparkling wit unite, 
With rn anly lore, or female beauty bright, 
(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace, 
Can only charm as in the second place,) 
Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear, 
As on this night, I've met these judges here! 
But still the hope Experience taught to live, 
Equal to judge — you're candid to forgive 
Nor hundred-headed Riot here we meet. 
With decency and law beneath his feet : 
Nor Insolence assumes fair FreeJom's name; 
Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame. 

Thou dread Power! whos? En^pire-giving hand 
Has oft been stretch'd i/) ohield the honour'd 
land! 



Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire r 
May every son be worthy of his sire ; 
Firm may she rise with generous disdain 
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain; 
Still self-dependent in her native shore. 
Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest « i-iu 
Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to ht Dj« 
more. 



LXXXI. 

SKETCH. 

[This Sketch is a portion of a long Poem which rni 
proposed to call " The Poet's Progress." He connnuni). 
cated tlie little he had done, for he was a courter of 
opinions, to Dugald Stewart. " The Fragment forms,'' 
said he, " the postulata, the axioms, the definition of a 
character, which, if it appear at all, shal; be placed in a 
variety of lights. This particular part I s<?id you, merely 
as a sample of my hand at pes "^rait-sketc^ing." It is pro- 
bable that the professor's res^ ""nse v is not favourable 
for we hear no more of the Poeni.] 

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, 
And still his precious self his dear delight ; 
Who loves his own smart -shadow in the streeto 
Better than e'er the fairast she he meets : 
A man of fashion, too he made his tour, 
Learn'd vive la baga'.elle, et vive I'amour : 
So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve, 
Polish their grii^., nay, sigh for ladies' love. 
Much specioxJG lore, but little understood ; 
Veneering jft outshines the solid wood : 
His solid sense — by inches you must tell, 
But K.«te his cunning by the old Scots ell ; 
HI5 meddling vanity, a busy fiend. 
Still making work his selfish craft must mend 



1 The Man of Fee.irf . by Mackenzie. 
10 



LXXXII 
TO MRS. SCOl'l 

OF WAUCHOPE. 

[Tne lady to whom this epistle is addressed was » 
painter and a poetess : her pencil sketches are said t< 
have been beautiful ; and she had a ready skill in rhyme, 
as the verses addressed to Hums fully testify. Taste ant' 
poetry belonged to lier family : she was the niece of Mr* 
Cockburn, authoress of a '""'^'itif^.l variation of Th« 
Flowers of the Forest.] 

I MIND it weel in early date, 
When I was beardless, young and blate, 
An' first could thresh the barn: 



146 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



Or haud a yokin at the pleugh ; 
An tho' forfoughten sair enough, 

Yet unco proud to learn : 
When first amang the yellow coru 

A man I reckon'd was, 
An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
Still shearing, and clearing, 

The tither stooked raw, 
Wi' claivers, an' haivers, 
W^earing the day awa. 

E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r, 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast. 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake 
Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
1 turn'd the weeder-clips aside, 
An' spar'd the symbol dear : 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 

But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right an' wrang, 

Wild floated in my brain; 
'Till on that har'st I said before, 
My partner in the merry core. 

She rous'd the forming strain: 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up her jingle. 
Her witching smile, her pauky een 
That gart my heart-strings tingle : 
I fired, inspired. 

At every kindling keek, 
But bashing and dashing 
I feared aye to speak. 

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel sajs, 
Wi' merry dance in winter daya. 

An we to share in common : 
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe. 
The saul o' life, the heaven below, 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, 

Be mindfu' o' your mither : 
She, honest woman, may think shame 

That ye're connected with her. 



Ye're wae men, ye're nae men 
That slight the lovely dears 

To shame ye, disclaim ye, 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 

For you, no bred tc barn and byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 

Thanks to you for yoxxr line : 
The marled plaid ye kindly spare. 
By me should gratefully be ware ; 

'Twad please me to the nine. 
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap, 

Douce hingin' owre my curple 
Than ony ermine ever lap. 
Or proud imperial purple. 

Fareweel then, lang heel then, 

An' plenty be your fa' ; 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca*. 



LXXXIII. 

EPISTLE TO WILLIAM CREECH 

[A storm of rain detained Burns one day, during hii 
border tour, at Selkirk, and he employed hia time in 
writing this characteristic epistle to Creech, his book- 
seller. Creech was a person of education and taste he 
was not only the most popular publisher in the nc:th, 
but he was intimate with almost all the distinguished 
men who, in those days, adorned Scottish literature. 
But though a joyous man, a lover of sociality, and th« 
keeper of a good table, he was close and par&imonious, 
and loved to hold money to the last moment that the law 
allowed.] 

Selkirk, 13 Mai/, 1787. 
Auld chukie Reekie's' sair distrest, 
Down droops her ance weel-burnisht crest, 
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest 

Can yield ava, 
Her darling bird that she lo'es best, 

Willie's awa ! 

Willie was a witty wight, 
And had o' things an unco slight ; 
Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight. 

An' trig an' braw '. 
But new they'll busk hei like a frigjit, 

Willie's awa ! 

The stifTest o' them a' he bow'd ; 
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd ; 

1 "Sdinburgb 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



147 



Vhey durst nae mair than he allow'd, 


May I be slander's common speech ; 


That was a law ; 


A text for infamy to preach ; 


•Ve've lost a birkie weel worth gowd, 


And lasUy, streekit out to bleach 


Willie's awa ! 


In winter snaw ; 




When 1 fo.-fe^i thee ! Willie Creech, 


N »■« gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools, 


Tho' far awa ! 


Frae colleges and boarding-schools, 




^Hj sprout like simmer puddock stools 


May never wicked fortune touzle him ! 


In glen or ehaw ; 


May never wicked man bamboozle him ; 


A i wh^ could brush them down to mools, 


Until a pow as auld's Methusalem 


^\^llie'sawa! 


He caaty claw ! 




Then to the blessed New Jerusalem, 


The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer* 


Fleet wing awa I 


May mourn their lo.ss wi' doofu' clamour ; 


He was a dictionar and grammar 




Amang them a' ; 






I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer, 




Willie's awa ! 






LXXXIV. 


Nae mair we see his levee door 




Philosophers and poets pour,^ 


THE 


And toothy critics by the score 


HIMBLL -fJCTITION OF BRUAR WATEK 


In bloody raw ! 


TO THE 


The adjutant o' a' the core, 


NC'BLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 


Willie's awa ! 






[The Falls of Bruar in Alhole are exceedingly bea* 


Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, 


tifui and picturesque; and their effect, when Burnt 


Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace ; 


visited them, was much impaired by want of shrubs and 


trees. This was in 1787 : the poet, accompanied by hia 


Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace 


future biographer, Professor Walker, went, when close 


As Rome n'er saw; 


on twilight, to this romantic scene : " he threw himself," 


They a' maun meet some ither place. 


said the Professor, "on a heathy seat, and gave himself 


Willie's awa ! 


up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasi* 


of imagination. In a few days I received a letter from 




Inverness, for the poet had gone on his way, with the 


Poor Burns — e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, 


Petition enclosed." His Grace of Athole obeyed the 


He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken, 


injunction : the picturesque points are now crowned 


Bcar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin 


with thriving woods, and the beauty of the Falls is much 


By hoodie-craw ; 


increased.] 


Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin', 


I. 


Willie's awa ! 


My Lord, I know your noble ear 


Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellum, 


Woe ne'er assails in vain ; 


^nd Calvin's fock are fit to fell him; 


Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 


\nd self-conceited critic skellum 


Your humble slave complain. 


His quill may draw; 


How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams 


lie wha could brawlie ward their bellum, 


In flaming summer-pride. 


Vr illie's awa ! 


Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams. 




And drink my crystal tide. 


tip \Timpling stately Tweed I've sped, 




^nl Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 


II. 


\nd Ettrick banks now roaring red, 


The lightly-jumpin' glowrin' trouts, 


While tempests blaw ; 


That thro' my waters play, 


But every joy and pleasure's fled, 


If, in their random, wanton spouts. 


Willie's awa ! 


They near the margin stray ; 


1 The Chamber of Commerce in Edin; irgh, of waich 


2 Many literary gentlemen were accustonrdd to maM 


'ir^^zV was Secretary 


at Mr. Creeches house at breakfant. 



148 



THE POETICAL WOhKt 



If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow, 
They're left the whitening stanes amang, 

In gasping death to wallow. 



Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, 

As Poet Burns came by, 
That to a bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween. 

Even as I was he shor'd me ; 
But had I in my glory been. 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 



Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well, 

As Nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' I say't mysel'. 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 



Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes. 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trC'CS, 

And bonnie spreading bushes. 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks. 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 



The sober laverock, warbling wild, 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child. 

Shall sweetly join the choir: 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear. 

The mavis mild and mellow ; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer. 

In all her locKs of yellow. 

VII. 

This, too, a covert shall insure 

To shield them from the storm ; 
And coward maukin sleep secure. 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat, 

To weave his crown of flow'vs ; 
Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat 

From prone-descending shov'rs. 



And Inert -y swe^t, eudeailng ^itefkltb, 

Sha!^ i-eet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds with all thei" wealth 

As empty idle care, 
ihe flow'rs shall vie in all their pharoj 

The hour of heav'n to grace, 
And Dirks extend their fragrant a-tas 

To screen the dear embrace 



Here haply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some musing bard may stray. 
And eye the smoking dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain gray ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam. 

Mild-chequering thro' the trees. 
Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, 

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 



Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 

My lowly hanks o'erspread. 
And view, d<?ip-bending in the pool. 

Their shadows' wat'ry bed ! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest 

My craggv cliffs adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest. 

The close pmbow'ring thorn. 

XI. 

So may old ^ *otia's darling hope, 

Your little ' -ngel band. 
Spring, like ^eir fathers, up to prop 

Their honon-^'d native land ! 
So may thro' Albion's farthest ken, 

To social-flow'ng glasses. 
The grace be — "Athole's honest men. 

And Athole's bonnie lasses ?" 



LJXXV. 
ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOFI 

IN LOCH-TURIT. 

[When Burns wrote ^hese touching lines, he was jtay- 
ing with Sir William J>Curray, of Ochtert/re, during onl 
of his Highland tours. . Loch-Turit is a w^ild lake among 
the recesses of the hilL , and was welcome from its one 
liness to the heart of the poet.] 

Why, ye tenant? of the lake. 
For me your waf'-y haunt forsake f 
Tell me, fellow-cr'»atures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ? 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



14» 



Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free: 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, 
Busy feed, or wanton lave: 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock, » 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race. 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
Mau, your proud usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below : 
riumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
lyrant stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 

Marking you his prey below. 

In his breast no pity dwells. 

Strong necessity compels : 

But man, to whom alone is giv'n 

A ray direct from pitying heav'n, 

Glories in his heart humane — 

And creatures for his pleasure slain. 

In these savage, liquid plains. 
Only known to wand 'ring swains, 
Where the mossy riv'let strays, 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on Nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend 

Or, if man's superior might 
Dare invade your native right. 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs yoi: scorn 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings. 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave. 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



LXXXVl. 

^fRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

jnH THJB CHIMNEY-PIECE, IN THE PARLOUR OF THE 
INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH. 

[The sastle of Taymoath is the residence of the Earl 
»f BreadalNane: it is a magnificent structure, contains 
pany fine paintings : has some splendid old trees' and 
omantic scenery.] 

A.DM1RIN0 Nature in her wildest grace, 

These northern scene^ with w<^*ry f«et I trace; 



O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid she^pj 
My savage journey, curious I pursue, 
'Till fam'd Breadalbane ojens to my view. — 
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen livid*-*, 
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ampl« 

sides ; 
Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mcng tJ^t 

hills. 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills , 
The Tay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride. 
The palace, rising on its verdant side ; 
The lawns, wood-fring'd in Nature's nativ« 

taste ; 
The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste : 
The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream ; 
The village, glittering in the noontide beam — 



Poetic ardours in my bosom swell. 

Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell : 

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 

Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods— 

* * * * * 

Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taugh* 

lyre, 
And look through Nature with creative fire ; 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd. 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander 

wild; 
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds. 
Find balm to soothe her bitter — rankling 

wounds : 
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward 

stretch her scan, 
And injur' cl Worth forget and pardon man. 

* « * « * 



LXXXVll 

WRITTEN WITH A PEJSClIi, 

STANDING BY THE FALL OF F5 EBB 

NEAR LOCH-NK%3 

[This is one of the many fine scenes, in the C'sltie 
Parnassus of Ossian : but when P iins saw it, the H.g'o 
land passion of the strenm was .-ibnted, fot there hnC 
been no rain for some time to swell and send it pouring 
down its precipices in a way worthy of the scene. Tne 
descent of the water is about two liundred feet. Therfl 
is anc\ v 'all further up the stream, very wild an* 



150 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



•avage,on whi k the Fyers makes three prodigious leaps 
into a deep gulf where nothing can be seen for the whirl- 
ing foam and agitated mist.] 

A.MONG the heathy hills and ragged woods 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 
Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream re- 
sounds, 
As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 
As deep-recoiling surges foam below, 
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet de- 
scends. 
And viewless Echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. 
Dim seen, through rising mists and ceaseless 

show'rs, 
The hoary cavern, wide surrounding, low'rs. 
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils. 
And still below, the horrid cauldron boils — 



LXXXVIII. 

POETICAL ADDRESS 

TO MR. W. TYTLER, 

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD's PICTURE. 

[When these verses were written there was much 
stately Jacobitism about Edinburgli, and it is likelv that 
Tytler, who laboured to dispel the cloud of calumny 
which hung over the memory of Queen Mary, had a 
tearing that way. Taste and talent have now descended 
in the Tytlers through three generations: an uncommon 
event in families. The present edition of the Poem has 
been completed from the original in the poet's hand- 
writing.] 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 
Of Stuart, a name once respected, 

A name, which to love, was once mark of a true 
heart, 
But now 'tis despis'd and neglected. 

t'ho something like moisture conglobes in my eye. 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a 
sigh. 

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne, 
My fathers have fallen to right it ; 

"hose fathers would spurn their degenerate son, 
Thfxt name should he scoffingly slight it. 



Still in prayers for King George I most heartilg 
join. 

The Queen and the rest of the gentry, 
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine 

Their title's avow'd by my country. 

But why of that epocha make such a fuss, 

That gave us th' Electoral stem ? 
If bringing them over was lucky for us, 

I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them. 

But loyalty truce! we're on dangerous grouiid. 
Who knows how the fashions may alter ? 

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send you a trifle, the head of a bard, 
A trifle scarce worthy your lare ; 

But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard. 
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, 
And ushers tne long dreary niglit; 

But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, 
Your course to the latest is bright. 
* * * * ♦ 



LXXXIX. 

WRITTEN IN 

FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, 

ON THE BANKS OF NITH. 

June, 1788. 

[first copy.] 

[The interleaved volume presented by Burns to Di. 
Geddes, has enabled me to prerent the reader w*ith tht 
rough draught of this truly beautiful Poem, the first* 
fruits perhaps of his intercourse with the muses of Nithr 
Bide.] 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deck'd in silken stole, 
Grave these maxims on thy soul. 
Life is but a day at most. 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost, 
Day, how rapid in its flight — 
Day, how few must see the night; 
Hope not sunshine every hour. 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 
Happiness is but a name. 
Make content and ease thy aim. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



IftJ 



Ambition is a meteor gleam ; 

Fame, a restless idle dream : 

Pleasures, insects on the wing 

Round Peace, the tenderest flower of Spring ; 

Those that sip the dew alone, 

Make ihe butterflies thy own; 

Those that would the bloom devour, 

Crush the locusts — save the flower. 

Far the future be prepar'd, 

9-uard wherever thou canst guard ; 

But, thy utmost duly done, ^ 

Welcome what thou canst not shun. 

Follies past, give thou to air, 

Make their consequence thy care : 

Keep the name of man in mind, 

And dishonour not thy kind. 

Reverence with lowly heart 

Him whose wondrous work thou art ; 

Keep His goodness still in view. 

Thy ti'ust — knd thy example, too. 

Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide I 
Quod the Beadsman on Nithsid«. 



XC. 

WKITTEN IN 

IRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, 

ONNITHSIDE. 
Dbcembbr, 1788. 

[Of this Poem Burns thought so well that he gave 
away mnny copies in his own handwriting : I have s««en 
i'hree. Wlien corrected to his mind, and the manuscripts 
■bowed many changes and corrections, h-y pu„A*nock *i 
in the new edition cf his Poems as it stands iu this second 
copy. The little Hermitage where these lines were 
written, stood in a lonely plantation belonging to the 
estate of Friars-Carse, and close to the march-dyke of 
EllisLvnd; a small door in the fence, of which the poet 
had tfl 3 key, admitted him at pleasure, and there he found 
Mclusion sui h as he liked, with flowers and shrubs all 
%. .•!»•<' Qim. Th<? first twelve 'ines of the Poem were 
lagraved neatly on one of the window-panes, by the 
d'.emo-d pencil of the bard. On Riddel's death, the 
Hermit;ige w.is allowed to go quietly to decay : I remem- 
••r in 1803 turning two outlyer stots out of the interior.] 

Thott whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed. 
Be thou deck'd in silken stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 

Fprung from night, in darkness lost; . 



Hope not sunshine ev'ry h Dur, 
Fear not clouds will always lour. 
As Youth and Love with sprightly danc« 
Beneath thy morning star advance, 
Pleasure with her siren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair : 
Let Prudence bless enjoyment's cup, 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high, 

Life's meridian flaming iiigh, 

Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 

Life's proud summits would'st thou seal©* 

Check thy climbing step, elate, 

Evils lurk in felon wait : 

Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold, 

Soar around each cliffy hold. 

While cheerful peace, with linnet song. 

Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 

Beck'ning thee to long repose ; 

As life itself becomes disease, 

Seek the chimney-nook of ease. 

There ruminate, with sober thought. 

On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought 

And teach the sportive younkers round. 

Saws of experience, sage and sound. 

Say, man's true genuine estimate, 

The grand criterion of his fate, 

Is not — Art thou high or low ? 

Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 

Wast thou cottager or king ? 

Peer or peasant ? — no such thing I 

Did many talents gild thy span ? 

Or frugal nature grudge thee one? 

Tell them, and press it on their mind 

As thou thyself must shortly find, 

The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, 

To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 

Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 

There solid self-enjoyment lies; 

That foolish, selfish, faithlei^s waya 

Lead to the wretched, vile, ttad bas« 

Thus, resign'd and quiet, creep 

To the bed of lasting sleep ; 

Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'ei awake, 

Night, where dawn shall never break. 

Till future life, future no more. 

To light and joy the good restore, 

To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go ! Hea'vn be thy gaide t 
Quod the beadsman of Nithside 



152 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



xci. 
TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, 

OF GLENRIDDEL. 
EXTOKfORE LINES ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER. 

lv,"iptsin Riddel, the Laird of Friars-Carse, was 
Barcs'S neighbour, at Ellisland : he was a kind, hospi- 
«ibie man, and a good antiquary. The "News and 
Roviavv ' which he sent to the poet contained, I have 
•eard, some sharp strictures on his works: Burn^, with 
Js usual strong sense, set the proper value upon all 
eontemporary criticism; genius, he knew, had nothing 
to fear from the folly or the malice of all such nameless 
" chippers and hewers." He demanded trial by his peers, 
and V. here were such to be found ?] 

Ellisland, Monday Evening. 
VouR news and review, Sir, I've read through 
and through. Sir, 
With little admiring or blaming ; 
The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, 
No murders or rapes worth the naming. 

Our friends, the reviewers, those chippers and 
hewers, 
" Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir, 
But of meet or unmeet in 2i fabric complete^ 
I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. 

My goose-quill too rude is i% tell all your good- 
ness 

Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet; 
Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun, 

And then all the world, Sir, should know it I 



XCII. 
A MOTHER'S LAMENT 

FOK THE DEATH OF HER SON. 

[" The Mother's Lament," says the poet, in a copy of 
tie veises now before me, " was composed partly with 
& view to Mrs. Fergusson of Craigdarroch, and partly to 
the Worthy patroness of my early unknown muse, Mrs. 
l*$W'irt, of Afton."] 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped. 

And pierc'd xn.-j darling's heart ; 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops. 

In dust dishonour'd laid : 
So fell the pride of all my hopes. 

My age's future shade. 



The mother-linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravish'd young ; 
So I, for my lost darling's sake. 

Lament the live day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blojr, 

Now, fond I bare my breast, 
0, do thou kindly lay me law 

With him I love, at rest ! 



XCIII. 

FIRST EPISTLE 

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 

OF FINTRAY. 

[In his manuscript copy of this Epistle the poet says 
" accompanying a request." What the request was th« 
letter which enclosed it relates. Graham was one of the 
leading men of the Excise in Scotland, and had promised 
Burns a situation as exciseman: for this the poet nad 
qualified himself; and as he began to dread that fanning 
would be unprofitable, he wrote to remind his patron o*' 
his promise, and requested to be appointed to a division 
in his own neighbourhood. He was appointed in du« 
time : his division was extensive, and included ten 
parishes.] 

When Nature her great master-piece designed, 
And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind, 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan. 
She form'd of various parts the various man. 

Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth ; 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 
And merchandise' whole genus take their birth: 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds. 
And all mechanics' many-apron'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net ; 
The caput mortuum of gross desires 
Makes a material for mere knights and squires 
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, 
Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave if 

signs, 
Law, physic, politics, and deep divines 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, 
The flashing elements of female souls. 

The order'd system fair before her stood. 
Nature, well pleas'd, pronounced it very goo<t; 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er. 
Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more 



Borne spumy, fieiy, ignis fatuus matter, 
Fuch as the slightest breath of air might scat- 
ter; 
With arct alaority and conscious glee 
'Natiir: may have her whim as well as we, 
Her H./garth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 
Bhe i'^>\i\^% the thing, and christens it — a Poet. 
CreAiure tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
iTh.'n blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow. 
A being form'd t'amuse his graver friends, 
Admir'd and prais'd — and there the homage 
ends: 
mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, 
Tet oft the sport uf all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
^ et haply wanting wherewithal to live ; 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
Fet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 

She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor 

work. 
Pityinor the propless climber of mankind, 
She cajit about a standard tree to find ; 
Vnd, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great, 
A title, and the only one I claim, 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham. 

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, 
Weak, timid liandsmen on life's ctormy main ! 
Taeir hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff. 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon. 
Unlike sage proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung 

boon. 
Th€ world were blest did bliss on them depend. 
Ah, that "the friendly e'er should want a 

friend!" 
Let pru lence number o'er each sturdy son 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun, 
Who feel by reason and who give by rule, 
flastinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
ii^bo make poor will do wait upon I should — 
W» own they're prudent, but who feels they're 

good ? 
r© wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
3od's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come ye who the godlike pleasure know. 
Heaven's attribute distinguished — to bestow! 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human race : 
Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace ; 
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
P'op of m^ dearest hopes for future times 



Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid. 
Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid? 
I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 
But there are such who court the tuneful nine — 
Heavens ! should the branded character b« 

mine ! 
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely 

flows. 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 
Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit! 
Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 
Pity the best of words should be but wind ! 
So to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song as 

<;ends. 
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 
In all the clam'rous cry of starving want. 
They dun benevolence with shameless front; 
Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays, 
They persecute you all your future days ! 
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 
My horny fist assume the plough again ; 
The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more : 
On eighteen-pence a week I've liv'd before. 
Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that lasi 

shift! 
I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift : 
That, plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height, 
Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, 
My muse may imp her wing for some sublimei 

flight. 



XCIV. 



ON THE DEATH OP 



SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR 

[I found these lines written with a pencil ic one of 
Burns's memomndum-hooks : he said he had jjstcOiii- 
posed them, and pencilled them down lest they should 
escape from his memory. They differed in nothing fiorn 
the printed copy of the first Liverpool edition. That 
they are by IJiirns there cannot be a doubt, thougli they 
were, I know not for what reason, excluded from sevflra, 
editions of the Posthumous Works of the poet.] 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, 
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave; 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening 
air, 
And hollow whistled in the rocky car*. 



154 



THE POETICAL WOEKS 



Lone as I wander' d by each clifiF and dell, 
Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train ;^ 

Or mus'd where limpid streams once hallow'd 
well,2 
Oi mould' ring ruins mark the sacred fane.3 

Th' increasing blast roared round the beetling 
»ocks, 
Xnt jlouds, swift-wing' d, flew o'er the starry 

sky, 

TLe groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 
And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form, 

In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd: 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe. 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued, 

Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war. 
Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurPd, 

That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, 
And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the 
world. — 

** My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" 
With accents wild and lifted arms — she cried ; 

•* Low lies the hand that oft was stretch' d to save, 
"Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest 
pride. 

"A weeping country joins a widow's tear, 
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry ; 

The drooping arts surround their patron's bier. 
And grateful science heaves the heart-felt sigh ! 

♦ I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair freedom's blossoms richly blow : 
But ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 
Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. 

* My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 

^ hile empty greatness saves a worthless name! 
So ; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

" And I will join a mother's tender cares, 
Thro' future times to make his virtues last; 

rtat distant years may boast of other Blairs !" — 
She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast. 

1 Tiie King's Park, at Holyrood>hou8e. 

2 St. Anthony's Well. 



xcv. 

EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER. 

[This little lively, biting epistle was addressed to oni 
of the poet's Kilmarnock companions. Hugh Parkel 
was the brother of William Parker, one of the sab- 
Bcribers to the Edinburgh edition of Burns's Poems : b4 
has been dead many years : the Epistle waa ecoveiod, 
luckily, from his papers.^ and printed fo; {he hrst tinie u 
1834.] 

In this strange land, this uncouth clime, 

A land unknown to prose or rhyme ; 

Where words ne'er crost the muse's heckles 

Nor limpet in poetic shackles: 

A land that prose did never view it, 

Except when drunk he stacher't thro' it, 

Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek, 

Hid in an atmosphere of reek, 

I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, 

I'hear it — for in vain I leuk. — 

The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, 

Enhusked by a fog infernal : 

Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, 

I sit and count my sins by chapters ; 

For life and spunk like ither Christians, 

I'm dwindled down to mere existence, 

Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies, 

Wi' nae kend face but Jenny Geddes."* 

Jenny, my Pegasean pride i 

Dowie she saunters down Nithside, 

And ay a westlin leuk she throws. 

While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose I 

Was it for this, wi' canny care. 

Thou bure the bard through many a shire ! 

At howes or hillocks never stumbled, 

And late or early never grumbled ?~ 

had I power like inclination, 

I'd heeze thee up a constellation, 

To canter with the Sagitarre, v 

Or loup the ecliptic like a bar ; 

Or turn the pole like any arrow ; 

Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morro-w^ 

Down the zodiac urge the race 

And cast dirt on his godship's face ; 

For I could lay my bread and Kail 

He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail. — 

Wi' a' this care and a' this grief, 

And sma,' sma' prospect of relief, 

And nought but peat reek i' my head. 

How can I write what ye can read ? — 

Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, 

Yell find me in a better tune ; 

3 St. Anthony's Chapel. 

4 His ntare. 



OF ROBERT BURNS 



15 



But till T^e meet and weet our whistle, 
Tak ♦W I excuse for nae epistle. 

ROBEET BUSNS. 



XCVI. 
LINES 

INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN U>DEX 

A NOBLE EARL'S PICTURE. 

Burns pla^red tl;e Doi trans of Dr. Blacklock and the 
F.art of Giencairn, over his panour chimney-piece at 
EllislaDd : oeneath the head of the latter he wrote some 
rerses, which he sent to the Earl, and requested leave to 
make public. This seems to have been refused ; and, as 
the verses were lost for years, it was believed they were 
destroyed : a rough copy, however, is preserved, and is 
low in the safe keeping of the Earl's name-son, Major 
James Giencairn Burns. James Cunningham, Earl of 
Giencairn, died '20th Januar>', 1791, aged 42 years; he was 
lucceeded by his only and chifdless brother, with whom 
his ancient'race was closed.] 

Whose is that noble dauntless brow ? 

And whose that eye of fire ? 
And whose that generous princely mien, 

E'en rooted foes admire ? 
Stranger ! to justly show that brow, ' 

And mark that eye of fire, 
Would take His hand, whose vernal tints 

His other works inspire. 

Bright as a cloudless summer sun. 

With stately port he moves; 
His guardian seraph eyes with awe 

The noble ward he loves — 
Among th' illustrious Scottish sons 

That chief thou may'st discern ; 
Mark Scotia's fond returning eye — • 

It dwells upon Giencairn. 



XCTII. 

ELEGY 
ON THE YEAR 1788 
SKETCH. 



\Th\% Pc*^'. wee firtt printed by Stewart, in 1801 . The 
fcoet loved to inuciige in such sarcastic sallies: it is full 
»f chnr.icter, and reflects a distinct image of those yeasty 
Mnes j 

For Lords or Kings 'I dinna mourn. 
E'en let them die — for that they're born, 



But oh ! pro iigious to reflec' ! 
A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! 
Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
What dire events ha'e taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us I 
In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint a-head. 
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ; 
The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt and Fox, 
And our guid wife's wee birdie cocks ; 
The tane is game, a bluidie devil. 
But to the hen-birds unco civil : 
The tither's something dour o' treadin', 
But better stufi" ne'er claw'd a midden— 
Ye ministers, come mount the pu'pit, 
An' cry till ye be hearse an' roupet, 
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel. 
An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal ; 
E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck. 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck 1 

Ye bonnie lasses, dight your e'en, 
For some o' you ha'e tint a frien' ; 
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en. 
What ye'll ne'er ha'e to gie again. 

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, 

How dowf and dowie now they creep ; 

Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, 

For Embro' wells are grutten dry. 

Eighty- nine, thou's but a bairn, 

An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! 

Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care. 

Thou now has got thy daddy's chair, 

Nae hand-cuflf'd, mizl'd, hap-shacLl'd Regen^ 

But, like himsel' a full free agent. 

Be sure ye follow out the plan 

Nae waur than he did, honest man ! 

As muckle better as ye can, 

January 1, 17i*t, 



XCVIII. 
ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE. 

[<' 1 had intended," aays Burns to Creech, 30tL iiCty, 
1789, "to have troubled you with a long letter, cut a 
present the delightful sensation of an omnipotent tooth- 
ache so engrosses all my inner man, af to put it out of m| 
power even to write nonsense." The poetic Address to th< 
Toothache seems to belong to this period.] 

My curse upon thy venom'd stang. 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang; 



Lo6 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Aai thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance ; 

Teaiing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines I 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; 
Our neighbours' sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases. 

Ay mocks our groan 1 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! 
I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle, 

To see me loup ; 
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

0' a' the num'rous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, 

Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, 

Thou bfears't the gree. 

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell. 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell. 

In dreadfu' raw. 
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell 

Amang them a' ! 

thou grim mischief-making chiel. 
That gars the notes of discord squeel, 
'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick ! — 
Gie' a* the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's Toothache. 



XCIX. 

ODE 

SACBKD TO THE MEMORY OF 

MRS. OSWALD, 

OF AUCHENCRUIVK. 

[The origin of this harsh effusion shows under what 
«eeling6 Darns sometimes wrote. He was, he sayS; on 
kiB way to Ayrshire, one stormy day in January, and had 
nnde himself comfortable, in spite of the snow-drift, over 
I emoking b'-'vi, at an iin at the Sanquhar, when in 
•rteeled the whole 'jneril pageantry of Mrs. Oswald 



He was obliged to mount his horse and ride for quark«ii 

to New Cumnock, where, over a good fire, he penned, iv 
his very ungallant indignation, the Ode to the lady'a m«' 
mory. He lived to think better of the name.J 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark. 
Hangman of creation, mark ! 
Who in widow-weeds appears, 
Laden with unhonoured years. 
Noosing with care a bursting purse. 
Baited with many a deadly curse ? 

STROPHE. 

View the wither'd beldam's face — 

Can thy keen inspection trace 

Aught of Humanity's sweet melting grace ? 

Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows. 

Pity's flood there never rose. 

See these hands, ne'er stretch'd to save. 

Hands that took — but never gave. 

Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 

Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest 

She goes, but not to realxas of everlasting rest 

ANTISTBOPHE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 

(Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends;) 

Seest thou whose step, unwilliftg hither bendft . 

No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; 

'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 

Doom'd to share thy fiery fate. 

She, tardy, hell-ward plies. 

EPODB. 

And are they of no more avail, 

Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year ? 

In other worlds can Mammon fail. 

Omnipotent as he is here ? 

0, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 

While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! 

The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience cleai, 

Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to II^aT'iL 



0. 

FRAGMENT INSCRIBED 

TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX 

[It was late in life before Burns began to think very 
highly of Fox: he had hitherto spoken of him rather a» 
a rattler of dice, and a frequenter of soft company, thai 
ai a statesman. As his hopes from the Tones vanished 




THE TOOTHACHE." 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



lb, 



k« began to tliink of the 'Wh gs : the first did nothing, 
and the latter held out hopes; and as hope, he said, was 
die i^ord'il of the human heart, he continued to hope on.] 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and their 

white ; 
How genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contra- 
diction — 
I sing ; if these mortals, the critics, should bustle, 
I care not, not I — let the critics go whistle ! 

But now for a patron, whose name and whose 

glory 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits; 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere 

lucky hits ; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so 

strong, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong ; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright. 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite 

right ; — 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses, 
For using thy name ofi"ers fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, what is man? for as simple he 

looks. 
Do but try to develope his hooks and his crooks ; 
With his depths and his shallows, his good and 

his evil. 
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

Un his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely la- 
bours. 

That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats 
up its neighbours ; 

Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would you 
know him ? 

Pull the string, ruling passion the picture will 
show him. 

What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 

One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd 
him ; 

For spite of his fine theoretic positions, 

Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

Borne sort all our qualities each to its tribe. 
And think human nature they truly describe ; 
Have you found this, or t'other? there's more 

in the wind, 
«Ls bj- one drunken fellow his comrades you'll 

tuid 



But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan, 
In the make of that wonderful creature, call'd 

man, 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
Nor even two difl'erent shades of the same, 
Though like as was ever twin brothe^ to brother 
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other 

But truce with abst^ac+lon, and truce with a 

muse. 
Whose rhymes you'll perhaps. Sir, ne'er deign 

to peruse: 
Will you leave your justings, your jars, and youl 

quarrels. 
Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laure'ji. 
My much-honour'd Patron, believe your poor 

poet, 
Your courage much more than your privdencd 

you show it ; 
In vain with Squire Billy, for laurels you struggle, 
He'll have them by fair trade, if not, he will 

smuggle ; 
Not cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em. 
He'd up the back-stairs, and by G — he woulif 

steal 'em. 
Then feats like Squire Billy's you ne'er ca» 

achieve 'em ; 
It is not, outdo him, the task is, out-thi*>ve him. 



CI. 

ON SEEING 

A WOUNDED HAP. E 

LIMP BY MB, 
WHICH A FELLOW HAD 7UST S7I«.'» . 

[This Poem is founoea on fact. A young n «ip r»f the 
name of Thomson told me — quite unconscious t / ca« 
existence of the Poem — that while Burns lived at rUii» 
land — he shot at and hurt a hare, which in the twjagki 
was feeding on his father's wheat-bread. The p'Oet, jso 
observing the hare come bleeding past him, "waa iA 
great wrath," said Thomson, "and cursed me, and ?a\.i 
little hindered him from throwing me into the Nith • acsc 
he was able enough to do it, though I was both '-"Oung 
and strong." The boor of Nithside did not use the haia 
worse than the critical Dr. Gregory, of Edinburgh, ussi 
the Poem: when Burns read liis remarks lie said, " 6i« 
gory is a good man, but he crucifies me !"] 

Inhuman man I curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ; 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart. 



158 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field ! 
The bitter little that of life remains : 
No more the thickening brakes and verdant 
plains 
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

■> 
Seek, mangl?i wretch, some place of wonted 
rest, 
No mere of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winf^ing Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn ; 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hap- 
less fate. 



CII. 
TO DR. BLACKLOCK, 

IN ANSWER TO A LETTEK. 

I^This blind scholar, though an indifferent Poet, was an 
excellent and generous man: he was foremost of the 
Edinburgh literati to admire the Poems of Burns, pro- 
BEote their fame, and advise that the author, instead of 
shipping himself for Jamaica, should come to Edinburgh 
tnd publish a new edition. The poet reverenced the name 
»f Thomas B'? cklock to the last hour of his life. — Henry 
Mackenzie, the Earl of Glencairn, and the Blind Bard, 
Were his three favourites.] 

Ellisland, list Oct. 1789. 
Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? 
I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie 

Wad bring ye to : 

Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye, 

And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the heron south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth 1 
H© tauld mysel' by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak my lettei 
I lippen'd to the chief in trouth, ^ 

And bade nae better. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron, 
Had at the time some dainty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on. 

And holy study ; 
4na tir'd »' sanls to waste his lear on 

F'en tried the body 



But what dy'e think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turn'd a ganger — Peace be here I 
Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, 

Ye'll now disdain me I 
And then my fifty pounds a year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wha, by Castalia's wimplin' streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies. 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, 

They maun hae brose and brats o' dndaies ; 

Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is — 

I need na vaunt, 
But I'll sned besoms — thraw saugh woodies, 

Before they want. 

Lord help me thro* this warld o' care I 
I'm weary sick o't late and air I 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare. 

And a' men britheis ? 

Come, firm Resolve, take thou the van, 

Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! 

And let us mind, faint-heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair : 
Wha does the utmost that he can. 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my giily rhyme, 

(I'm scant o' fewe, and scant o' time,) 

To make a i>appy fire-side clime 

To weans and wife, 
That'p thTs true pathos and sublime 

Of human life 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
I wat she is a dainty chuckle. 

As e'er tread clay I 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockle, 

I'm yours for ay, 

Robert Bravi 



era. 

DELIA. 

AN ODE. 

[Inese verses were first prirted in the Star newspa* 
p«r, ir May, 1789. It is said that one day a friend read 
k) the poet some verses from the Star, composed on the 
^ttem of Pope's Song, by a Person of Quality. " These 
Ua^s are beyond you," he added: "the muse of Kyle 
tnzzDt match the muse of London." Burns mused a 
B<«r38nt, and then recited "Delia, an Ode. "j 

F/MR the face of orient day, 
Fair the tints of op'ning rose, 
But fairer still my Delia dawns, 
More lovely far her beauty blows. 

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ; 
But, Delia, more delightful still 
Steal thine accents on mine ear. 

The flow'r-enamoTired busy bee 
The rosy banquet loves to sip ; 
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip ; — 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove I 
0, let me steal one liquid kiss ! 
For, oh ! my soul is parch'd with love. 



OIV. 

TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. 

^I.)hn M'Murdo, Esq., one of the chamberlains of the 
(Take of Queensberry, lived at Drumlanrig: he was a 
aign-ininded, warm-hearted man, and much the friend 
u.' XV 3 -^^et. These lines accompanied a present of books : 
s>tner8 were added soon afterwards on a pane of glass in 
hriiTi.aniif cistle. 

" Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day ! 
No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray; 
No wrinkle furrowed by the hand of care, 
Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair I 
O may no non the father's honour stain, 
Nor ever Jaughter give the mother pain." 
9ow fully the poet's wishes were fulfilled need not be 
(nld to anyone acquainted with the family.] 

0, COULD I give thee India's wealth, 

As I this trifle send ! 
Because thy joy in both would be 

To share them with a friend. 



But golden sands did never grace 

The Heliconian stream ; 
Then take what gold could never buy- 

An honest Bard's esteem. 



CV. 

PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES, 

1 Jan, 1:90. 

[This prologue was written m December, 1789, foi 
Mr. Sutherland, who recited it with applause in th« 
little theatre of Dumfries, on new-year's night. Sit 
Harris Nicolas, however, has given to Ellisland th* 
benefit of a theatre ! and to Burns the whole barony o< 
Dalswinton for a farm !] 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city 
That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the 

pity: 
Tho', by-the-by, abroad why will you roam ? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at home : 
But not for panegyric I appear, 
I come to wish you all a good new year ! 
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye. 
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 
The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade ma 

say, 
"You're one year older this important day." 
If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion^ 
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the ques- 
tion; 
And with a would-be roguish leer and wink. 
He bade me on you press this one word — 
"think!" 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush'd with hop« 

and spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit 
To you the dotard has a deal to say, 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way ; 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattiej 
That the first blow is ever half the battle: 
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatci 

him. 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him ; 
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, tho' not ^east in love, ye youtliful fa't, 
I Allelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care > 



160 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow, 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important 

now! 
To crown your happiness he asks your leave, 
And oflFers bliss to, give and to receive. 

For 0"r sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, 
With grateful pride we own your many favours, 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
feplieve our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



CVI. 

SCOTS PROLOGUE, 

FOR MR. Sutherland's benefit night, 

DUMFRIES. 

[Burns did not shine in prologues : he produced some 
vigorous lines, but they did not come in harmony from 
ni« tongue, like the songs in which he recorded the love- 
liness of the dames of Caledonia. Sutherland was 
Tjanager of the theatre, and a writer of rhymes. — Burns 
said his players were a very decent sst: he had seen 
tnem an evening or two.] 

What needs this din about the town o* Lou' on, 
How this new play an' that new sang is comiV ? 
Why is outlandish stuff sae raeikle courted ? 
Does nonsense mend like whiskey, when im- 
ported ? 
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, 
Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame ? 
For comedy abroad he need n*e toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece 
To gather matter for a serious piece ; 
There's themes enough in Caledonian story, 
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory/ 

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell ? 
Where are the muses fled that could produce 
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce ; 
Sow here, even here, he first unsheath'd the 

sword, 
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord, 
And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, 
Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin? 
for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene. 
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen! 
Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 
Qainsi headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's 

arms. 



She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 

To glut the vengeance of a rival woman ; 

A woman — tho' the phrase may seem uncivil— 

As able and as cruel as the Devil ! 

One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, 

But Douglases were heroes every age : 

And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, 

A Douglas follow'd to the martial strife, 

Perhaps if bowls row right, and right succeed* 

Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads ! 

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
Would take the muses' servants by the hand ; 
Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them, 
And where ye justly can commend, commend 

them ; 
And aiblins when they winna stand the test. 
Wink hard, and say the folks hae done their best 
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution 
Ye'U soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation. 
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, 
And warsle time, an' lay him on his back ! 
For us and for our stage should ony spier, 
** Whase aught thae chiels maks a' this bustU 

here I" 
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow. 
We have the honour to belong to you ! 
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye likC; 
But like good mithers, shore before ye strike.— 
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us. 
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 
We've got frae a' professions, sets, and ranks : 
God help vs ! we're but poor — ye'se get but 

thank*- 



OVii 

SKETCH 

NEW YEAR'S DAT. 

TO MRS. DUN LOP, 

[This is a picture of the Dunlop family : it was prictea 
from a hasty sketch, wliich the poet culled extempore. 
The major whom it mentions, was General Andrew 
Dunlop, who died in 1804 : Rachel Dunlop was after- 
wards married to Rohert Glasgow, Esq. Another of th« 
Dunlops served with distinction in India, where he rose 
to the rank of General. They were a gallant race, and 
all distinguished.] 

, This day. Time winds th' exhausted chain, 
To run the twelvemonth's length again: 



OF ROBERT BURJNb 



161 



I see the old, bald-pated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine. 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir, 
In vain assail him with their prayer; 
Dea# as my friend, he sees them press, 
Nor makes the hour one moment less. 
<rill you (the Major's with the hounds, 
The happy tenants share his rounds ; 
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day. 
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) 
From housewife cares a minute borrow — 
— That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow- 
And join with me a moralizing, 
This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight deliver? 
*' Another year is gone for ever." 
And what is this day's strong suggestion ? 
" The passing moment's all we rest on!" 
Rest on — for what ? what do we here ? 
Or why regard the passing year ? 
Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, 
Add to our date one minute more ? 
A few days may — a few years must — 
Repose us in the silent dust. 
Then is it wise to damp our bliss? 
Yes — all such reasonings are amiss 1 
The voice of nature loudly cries, 
And many a message from the skies, 
That something in us never dies : 
That on this frail, uncertain state, 
Hang matters of eternal weight : 
That future life in worlds unknown 
Must take its hue from this alone ; 
Whether as henvenly glory bright. 
Or dark as misery's woeful night. — 

Since then, my honour'd, lirst of friends, 
On this poor being all depends. 
Let us th' important now employ. 
And live as those who never die. — 

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, 
Witness that filial circle round, 
(A sight, life's sorrows to repulse, 
A sight, pale envy to convulse,) 
Others now claim your chief regard ; 
Fourself, you wait your bright reward. 



CViTi. 
TO A GENTLEMAN 

WHO HAD SENT HIM A NFWSPAPER, AJRD OFPiKEJ) TO 
CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. 

[These sarcastic hnes conbiin a too true picture o t)*!* 
times in which they were written. Thougli great oha:^ •• 
have taken place in court and camp, yet Austria, Rusms 
and Prussia keep the tack of Poland : nobody gay « 
word of Denmark : emasculated Italy is still singirar 
opera girls are still dancing; but Chatham Wii'. g-iikil 
Charlie, Daddie Burke, Royal George, and Geordi* 
Wales, have all passed to their account.] 

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, 

And, faith, to me 'twas really new I 

How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I wanted? 

This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted, 

To ken what French mischief was brewin'j 

Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin' ; 

That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off; 

Or how the collieshangie works 

Atween the Russians and the Turks ; 

Or if the Swede, before he halt, 

Would play anither Charles the Twall 

If Denmark, any body spak o't ; 

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't; 

How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin' 

How libbet Italy was singin' ; 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss 

Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss : 

Or how our merry lads at hame. 

In Britain's court kept up the gane : 

How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him I 

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was livin' ; 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 

How daddie Burke the plea was cookin' 

If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ; 

How cesses, stents, and fee? were rax'd. 

Or if bare a — s yet were tax'd ; 

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, 

Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls ; 

If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, 

Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails ; 

Or if he was grown oughtlins douser. 

And no a perfect kintra cooser. — 

A' this and mair I never heard of; 

And but for you I might despair'd of. 

So, gratefu', back your news I send yoit, 

And pray, a' goiid things may attend you ■ 

Ellisland, Monday morning ^ 1790 



162 



THE POETICAL VroilKS 



cix. 

THE KIRK'S ALARM;> 

A SATIRE. 

[first version.] 

[The history of this Poem is curious. M'Gill; one of 
»e ministers of Ayr, long suspected of entertaining 
Heterodox opinions concerning original sin and the Tri- 
nity, published " A Practical Essay on the Death of 
Jesus Christ;" which, m the opinion of the more rigid 
portion of his brethren, inclined both to Arianism and 
Socininnism. This essay was denounced as heretical, by 
a minister of the name of Peebles, in a sermon preached 
November 5th, 1788, and all the west country was in a 
flame. The subject was brought before the Synod, and 
was warmly debated till M'Gill expressed his regret for 
Che disquiet he had occasioned, explained away or apo- 
ogized for t)ie challenged passages in his Essay, and de- 
clared his adherence to the standard doctrines of his 
niother church. Burns was prevailed upon to bring his 
satire to the aid of M'Gill, but he appears to have done 
Bu with reluctance.] 

Orthodox, orthodox, 
Wha believe in John Knox, 

Let me sound an alarm to your conscience : 
There's a heretic blast 
Has been blawn in the wast, 

That what ^'s no sense must be nonsense. 

Dr. Mac,2 Dr. Mac, 

You should stretch on a rack, 
To strike evil doers wi' terror; 

To join faith and sense 

Upon ony pretence, 
Is heretic damnable error, 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, 

It was mad I declare. 
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; 

Provost John 3 is still deaf 

To the church's relief, 
A-nd orator Bob ^ is its ruin 

D'rymple mild,5 D'rymple mild, 

Thro' your heart's like a child, 
And your life like the new driven snaw, 

Tet that winna save ye, 

Auld Satan must hav ye, 
For preaching that three's ane an' twa. 

' This Poem was written a short time after the pub- 
.catioE of M'Gill's Essiy. 
^ Dr. INrGill. 3 John Ballantyne. 

1 Ro])ert Aiker. 5 Dr. Dalrymple. 

< Mr. Russell . 7 Mr. M'Kinlay. 



Rumble John,^ Rumb^e Jcha, 

Mount the steps wi' a groam, 
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd; 

Then lug out your ladle, 

Deal brimstone like adle, 
And roar every note of the damn' i. 

Simper James,"' Simper Jame* 
Leave the fair Killie dames, 

There's a holier chase in your view ; 
I'll lay on your head 
That the pack ye'll soon lead, 

For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawney,^ Singet Sawney, 

Are ye herding the penny, 
Unconscious what evil await ? 

Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, 

Alarm every soul. 
For the foul thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld,* Daddy Auld, 

There's a tod in the fauld, 
A tod meikle waur than the clerk ; 

Though ye can do little skaith, 

Ye'll be in at the death, 
And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. 

Davie Bluster,'^ Davie Bluster, 
If for a saint ye do muster, 

The corps is no nice of recruits ; 
Yet to worth let's be just, 
Royal blood ye might boast, 

If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamy Goose," Jamy Goose, 

Ye ha'e made but toom roose, 
In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 

But the Doctor's your mark. 

For the L — d's haly ark ; 
He has cooper'd and 3£.wd a wrang pin hi*l, 

Poet Willie, J« Poet Willie, 

Gie the Doctor a volley, 
Wi' your liDerty's chain and your wit; 

O'er Pegasus' side 

Ye ne'er laid astride. 
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he — — 

8 Mr. Moody, of Riccarton. 

9 Mr. Auld of MauchJine. 

10 Mr. Grant, of Ochiltree. 

11 Mr. Young, of Cumiioek. 

12 Mr Peebles, Ay 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 16% 


Andro Gouk,' Andro Gouk, 


ex. 


Ye may slander th(3 book, 




\nd the book not the waur, let me tell ye; 


THE KIRK'S ALARM 


Ye are rich and look big, 


A BALLAD. 


But lay by hat and wig, 


[second version.] 


Vnd ye'll ha'e a calf's head o' sma' value. 




[This YefBJon is from the papers of Miss Lopan» o» 




Afton. The origin of the Poem is thus related toQrtb 


Barr Steenie,^ Barr Steenie, 


ham of Fintry by the poet liimself : " Though I dare »aj 


What mean ye, what mean ye? 


you have none of the solemn League and Covenant fire 


which shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, and 


If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 


the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you must hav6 


Ye may ha'e some pretence 


heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of the clergymen of Ayr, and 


To havins and sense, 


-his heretical book, God help him, poor man! Though 




one of the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest of the 


Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 


whole priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense 




of that ambiguous term, yet the poor doctor and hia 




numerous family are in imminent danger of being thrown 


Irvine side,^ Irvine side. 


out (9th December, 1790) to tlie mercy of the winte 


Wi' your turkey-cock pride, 


winds. The enclosed ballad on that business, is, I con 


Of manhood but sma' is your share, 


fess, too local : but 1 laughed myself at some con.-eits ir» 


Ye've the figure 'tis true, 


it, though I am convinced in my conscience there we a 
good many heavy stanzas in it too." The Kirk's Ala'^oi 


Even your faes will allow, 


was first printed by Stewart, iri 1801. Cromek calls it, 


A.nd your friends they dae grant you nae mair. 


"A silly satire, on some worthy ministers of the gospel, 




in Ayrshire."] 


Muirland Jock,"* Muirland Jock, 


I. 




Orthodox, orthodox. 


When the L — d makes a rock 






Who believe in John Knox, 


To crush Common sense for her sins, 






Let me sound an alarm to your conscienc*^ 


If ill manners were wit. 






There's a heretic blast. 


There's no mortal so fit 






Has been blawn i' the wast. 


To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 




That what is not sense must be nonsense, 




Orthodox, 


Holy.Will,5 Holy Will, 


That what is not sense must be nonsense. 


There was wit i' your skull. 




When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor; 


II. 


The timmer is scant. 


Poctor Mac, Doctor Mac, 


When ye're ta'en for a saunt, 


Ye should stretch on a rack, 


Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 


And strike evil doers wi' terror ; 




To join faith and sense. 


Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons. 


Upon any pretence. 


Seize your spir'tual guns. 


Was heretic damnable e^rror, 


Ammunition you never can need ; 


Doctor Mac, 


Your hearts are the stuff, 


Was heretic damnable error. 


Will be powther enough. 


III. 


\ni your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 


Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, 




It was rash I declare. 


P:ct Bums, Poet Burns, 


To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; 


Wi' your priest-skelping turns. 


Provost John is still deaf, 


Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 


To the church's relief. 


Your muse if a gipsie, 


And orator Bob is its ruin. 


E'en tho' she were tipsie. 


Town of Ayr, 


She xmld ca' us nae waur than we are. 


And orator Bob is its ruin. 


I Dr. Andrew Mitchell, of Monkton. 


4 Mr. John Shepherd, Muirkirk. 


■i Mr. Stephen Young, of Barr. 


5 nr)ly Willie, alias William Fisher, Elder in MauB- 


* M; George Smith, of Gulston. 


line 



164 THE POETICAL WOKKS 


IV. 


And the book nought the waur — let me tell yon 


D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, 


Tho' ye're rich and look big, 


Tho' your heart's like a child, 


Yet lay by hat and wig. 


, And yont life like the new-driven snaw, 


And ye'll hae a calf's-head o' sma' value. 


Yet that winna save ye, 


Andrew Gowk, 


Old Satan must have ye 


And ye'll hae a calf's-head o' sma' va.ae- 


For preaching that three's ane an' twa, 




D'rymple mild. 


X. 


For preaching that three's ane an' twa. 


Poet Willie, Poet Willie, 




Gie the doctor a volley. 


V. 


Wi' your *♦ liberty's chain" and your mt; 


Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, 


O'er Pegasus' side. 


Seize your spiritual guns, 


Ye ne'er laid a stride 


Ammunition ye never can need ; 


Ye only stood by when he , 


Your hearts are the stuff. 


Poet Willie, 


Will be powder enough. 


Ye only stood by when he . 


And your skulls are a storehouse of lead. 




Calvin's sons. 


XI. 


And your skulls are a storehouse of lead. 


Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, 




What mean ye ? what mean ye ? 


VI. 


If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 


Rumble John, Rumble John, 


Ye may hae some pretence, man, 


Mount the steps with a groan, 


To havins and sense, man. 


Cry the book is with heresy cramm'd ; 


Wi' people that ken ye nae better, 


Then lug out your ladle, 


Barr Steenie, 


Deal brimstone like aidle. 


Wi' people that ken ye nae better. 


And roar every note o' the damn'd. 




Rumble John, 


XII. 


And roar every note o' the damn'd. 


Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, 




Ye hae made but toom roose, 


VII. 


C hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 


Simper James, Simper James, 


But the doctor's your mark. 


Leave the fair Killie dames. 


For the L — d's holy ark. 


There's a holier chase in your view ; 


He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't 


I'll lay on your head, 


Jamie Goose, 


That the pack ye'll soon lead, 


He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't 


For puppies like you there's but few. 




Simper James, 


XIII. 


For puppies like you there's but few. 


Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, 




For a saunt if ye muster. 


VIII. 


i It's a sign they're no nice o' recruits.^ 


Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie, 


Yet to worth let's be just, 


A-e ye herding the penny. 


Royal blood ye might boast. 


0noonscf 3US what danger awaits ? 


If the ass were the king o' the brutes, 


With a jump, yell, and howl; 


Davie Bluster, 


Alarm every soul. 


If the ass were the king o' the brutes. 


for Hannibal's just at your gates, 




Singet Sawnie, 


XIV. 


Pot Hannibal's just at your gates. 


Muirland George, Muirland Georgt 




Whom the Lord made a scourge. 


IX. 


To claw common sense for her sins. 


Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk, 


If ill manners were wit. 


Ye may slander the book, 


There's no mortal so fit, 



OF ROBERT BURNS i(h 


To confound the poor doctor at ance, 
Muirland George, 
To confoimd the poor doctor at ance. 


poet, giving him an account of the unlooked-for dsatk 
of his mare, Peg Nicholson, the successor of Jeun;) 
Geddes. She had suffered both in the emplo) of the joy 
ous priest and the thoughtless poet. Sho acquired lei 




name from that frantic virago who attempted to faannle* 


XV. 


George the Third.] 


CessnocVside, Cessnockside, 


Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. 


Wi' your ^nrkey-cock pride, 


As ever trode on airn ; 


manhood but sma' is your share ; 


But now she's floating down the Nith, 


Ye've the figure, it's true. 


And past the mouth o' Cairn. 


Even our faes maun allow, 




And your friends daurna say ye hae mair, 


Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 


Cessnockside, 


And rode thro' thick an' thin ; 


And your friends daurna say .ye hae mair, 


But now she's floating down the Nith, 




Ajad wanting even the skin. 


XVI. 




Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld, 
There's a tod i' the fauld 
A tod meikle waur than the clerk ;i 
Tho' ye downa do skaith, 


Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And ance she bore a priest , 

But now she's floating down the Nith, 
For Solway fish a feast. 


Ye'U be in at the death, 


Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. 


And if ye canna bite ye can bark. 


And the priest he rode her sair; 


Daddie Auld, 


And much oppress'd and bruis'd she was ; 


And if ye canna bite ye can bark. 


As priest-rid cattle are, &c. &c. 


XVII. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, 






Wi' your priest-skelping turns, 


CXII. 


Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 


ON 


Tho' your Muse is a gipsy, 
Yet were she even tipsy, 


CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, 


She could ca' us nae waur than we are, 


▲ GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS H 


Poet Burns, 


NOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD. 


She sould ca' us nae waur than we are. 


" Should the poor be flattered ?" 




Shakspearw 




But now his radiant course is run, 


POSTSCRIPT. 


For Matthew's course was bright j 
His soul was like the glorious sun, 


Afton's Laird, Afton's Laird, 


A matchless lieav'nly light ! 


When your pen can be spar'd, 


[Captain Matthew Henderson, a gentleman cf very 


A copy o' this I bequeath, 


agreeable mnnners and great propriety of rha acter, 


On the same sicker score 
I mention'd before, 


usually lived in Edinburgh, dined constantly af, Fo'tune'i 
Tavern, and was a member of tlie Capilliiire Club which 
was composed of all who desired to be thought v itty vt 


To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith, 


joyous: he died in 1789 : Burns, in a note to the Po*vi. 


Afton's Laird, 


says, " I loved tlie man mucli, and have not flattere li/i 


To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith. 


memory." Hendersf)n seems indeea to have been Br 
versally liked. "In our travelling p:irty,>> says Si' 




James Campbell, of ArdkingiasH, '• woa Mattnew Hen 




derson, then (1759) and afterwards well known Mnd muc>- 




esteemed in the town of Edinl)urgh; at i lat timn an of- 


CXI. 


ficer in the twenty-fifuh regimentof foot, ai d like myself 




on his way to jom the a my ; and I «jav «Hy with truth, 


PEG NICHOLSON. 


that in the course of a long life I liave ne/er known i 




more estim;ible chnracter, than Matthew Hendcisoa ' 


These ha<7 verges are to be found in a lettc? ad- 


Memoirs of Campbell^ of Ardkinglcss, p. 17.] 


tressed to Ni ol, cf the High School of i^inburgh, >- the 


DEATii ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 


I GavL. Hamilton. 


xne meikle devil wi' a woodie 



166 THE POETICAL WORKS 


Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, 


Mourn, clam'ring craiks. at close o' day, 


O'er hurcheon hides, 


'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay ; 


And like stock-fish aome o'er his studdie 


And when ye wing your annup.1 way 


Wi' thy auld sides ! 


Frae our cauld shora, 




Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, 


He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae us torn, * 


Wham we deplore. 


The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 




Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn 


Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r. 


By wood and wild. 


In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r. 


Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, 


What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, 


Frae man exil'd ! 


Sets up her horn, 


% 


Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 


Ye hills ! near neebors o' the starns, 


'Till waukrife morn I 


That proudly cock your cresting cairns I 




Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, 


rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 


Where echo slumbers ' 


Oft have yg heard my canty strains : 


Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns. 


But now, what else for me remains 


My wailing numbers I 


But tales of woe ? 




And frae my een the drapping rains 


Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 


Maun ever flow. 


Ye hiz'lly shaws and briery dens ! 




Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens. 


Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year 1 


Wi' toddlin' din, 


Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 


Or forming Strang, vi' hasty stens, 
Frae lin to lin! 


Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 
Shoots up its head, 




Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear 




For him that's dead J 


Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea ; 


• 


Ye stjitel.y foxgloves fair to see ; 


Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair. 


Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie. 


In grief thy sallow mantle tear; 


In scented bor'ra ; 


Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air 


Ye roses on your thorny tree. 


The roaring blast. 


The first o' flow'rs. 


Wide, o'er the naked world declare 




The worth we've lost ! 


A*, dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 




Droops wi+h a diamond at its head. 


Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light 


At ev'r, when beans their fr^-granoe phci 


Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 


I' th' rustling gale. 


And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, 


Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, 


My Matthew mourn ! 


Come join my wail. 


For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, 




Ne'er to return. 


Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood * 


0, Henderson ! the man — the brother ! 


Ye grouse that crap the heather bud: 


And art thou gone, and gons for ever ? 


Ye curlews calling thro' a clud : 


And hast thou crost that unknown river 


Ye whistling ploveif ; 


Life's dreary bound ! 


An' mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood I- 


Like thee, where shall I find another, 


He's gane tor ever I 


The world around ? 


Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled t^sM 


Gh to your sculptur'd tombs, ye great, 


Ye fisher herons, watching eels : 


In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 


Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 


But by thy honest turf I'll wait, 


Circling the lake ; 


Thou m^uc^ vol ihi 


Ve bitterns, till the quagmire reels. 


AuA w^ep the »^ lest fellow's fs^te 


Kair for his saue. 


H'er lay in earth. 



OF KOBEllT BURNS. 



167 



THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger ! — my story's brief, 
And truth I shall relate, man ; 

I tell nae common tale o' grief — 
For Matthew was a great man. 

f ihou uncommon merit hast, 

ifet spurn'd at fortune's door, man, 

S look of pity hither cast — 
For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou lI noble sodger art, • 
That passest by this grave, man, 

There moulders here a gallant heart — 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man, 

Here lies wha weel had won thy praise— 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

K thou at friendship's sacred ca' 

Wad life itself resign, man, 
Thy sympathetic tear maun fa' — 

For Matthew was a kind man! 

If thou art staunch without a stain. 
Like the unchanging blue, man, 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain — 
For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 
And ne'er guid wine did fear, man, 

This was thy billie, dam and sire — 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whingia sot. 
To blame poor Matthew dare, man. 

May docl and sorrow be his lot ! 
¥:>* Matthew was a rare man 



"iXIII. 
THE FIVE Ci^KLINS. 

A SCOTS BALLAD. 

Tune — Chevy Chase. 

fTh'B 18 a looa. and political Poem composed or th« 
lontest between Miller, tlie younger, of Dalswinton, and 
Jobnstone, of Westerhall, for the representation of the 
Dumfries and Galloway district of Boroughs, Each 
low n or boiough speaks and acts in character: Maggy 
Mrioaates Dumfries; Marjory, Lochmabenj Beyw of 



Solwayside, Annan ; Whiskey Jeanj Kirkcudbright ; anJ 
Black Joan, Sanquhar. On the part of Miller, all thi 
Whig interest of the Duke of Queensberrv was exerteii 
and all the Tory interest on the side of the Johnstone 
the poet's heart was w'th the latter. Annan and Lccu 
maben stood staunch by old names and old affection* 
after a contest, bitterer than anything of the kindreniSis 
bered, the Whig interest prevailed.] 

There were five carlins in the south, 

They fell upon a scheme. 
To send a lad to London town. 

To bring them tidings hame. 

Not only bring them tidings hame, 

But do their errands there ; 
And aiblins gowd and honour baith 

Might be that laddie's share. 

There was Maggy by the banks o' NitU 

A dame wi' pride eneugh ; 
And Marjory o' the mony lochs, 

A carlin auld and teugh. 

And blinkin' Bess of Annandale, 

That dwelt near Solway-side ; 
And whiskey Jean, that took her gill 

In Galloway sae wide. 

And black Joan, frae Crighton-peel, 

0' gipsey kith an' kin ; — 
Fire wighter carlins were na found 

The south countrie within. 

To send a lad to London town. 

They met upon a day; 
And mony a knight, and mon/ a laird, 

This errand fain wad gae. 

mony a knight and mony a laird. 

This errand fain wad gae ; 
But nae ane could their fancy pl< 

ne'er a ane but twae. 

The first ane was a belted knight. 

Bred of a border band ; 
And he wad gae to London town. 

Might nae man him withstand. 

And he wad do their errands weel. 

And meikle he wad say ; 
And ilka ane about the court 

Wad bid to him prude-day. 

The neist cam in a sodger youtii. 

And spak wi' modest grace. 
And he wad gae to London towa, 

If sae their pleasure waa. 



l68 



THE POETICAL WOEKS 



He wad na hecht them courtly gifts, 

Nor meikle speecli pretend ; 
But he wad t echt an honest heart, 

Wad ne'er desert his friend. 

Then wham to chuse, and wham refuse, 

At strife thir carlins fell ; 
Fo~ some had gentlefolks to please, 

And some wad please themsel'. 

Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg p' Nith, 

And she spak up wi' pride, 
And she wad send the sodger youth, 

Whatever might betide. 

For the auld gudeman o' London court 

She didna care a pin ; 
But she wad send the sodger youth 

To greet his eldest son. 

Then slow raise Marjory o' the Lochs 

And wrinkled was her brow ; 
Her anoient weed was russet gray, 

Her auld Scotch heart was true. 

" The London court set light by me — 

I set as light by them ; 
And I will send the sodger lad 

To shaw that court the same." 

Then up sprang Bess of Annandale, 

And swore a deadly aith, 
Says, " I will send the border-knight 

Spite o' you carlins baith. 

<For far-otf fowls hae feathers fair, 

And fools o' change are fain ; 
But I hae try'd this border-knight, 
. I'll try him yet again." 

Then whiskey Jean spak o'er her drink, 

*♦ Ye weel ken, kimmersa', 
The aula gudeman o' London court. 

His back's been at the wa'. 

*And mony a friend that kiss'd his caup. 

Is now a fremit wight ; 
But it's ne'er be sae wi' whiskey Jean, — 
We'll send the border-knight.'* 

Bays black Joan o' Crighton-peel, 

A carlin stoor and grim, — 
* The auld gudeman, or the young gudeman, 
For me may sink o"^ swim. 



" For fools will prate o' right and wrang, 
While knaves laugh in their sleeve , 

But wha blaws best the horn shall win, 
I'll spier nae courtier's leave." 

So how this mighty plea may end 

There's naebody can tell : 
God grant the king, and ilka man. 

May look weel to himsel' I 



CXIV. 
THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS 0' NITK. 

[This short Poem was first published by Robert Cham- 
bers. It intimates pretty strongly, how much the poel 
disapproved of the change which came over the Puke 
of Queensberry's opinions, when he supported the ngtl 
of the Prince of Wales to assume the government, witb^ 
out consent of Parliament, during the king's alarratflf 
illness, in 1788.] 

The laddies by the banks o' Nith, 
Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie, 

But he'll sair them, as he sair'd the King, 
Turn tail and rin awa', Jamie. 

Up and waur them a', Jamie, 

Up and waur them a' ; 
The Johnstones hae the guidin' Q't, 

Ye turncoat Whigs awa'. 

The day he stude his country's friend. 
Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie : 

Or frae puir man a blessin' wan. 

That day the Duke ne'er saw, Jamie. 

But wha is he, his country's boast ? 

Like him there is na twa, Jamie ; 
There's no a callant tents the kye. 

But kens o' Westerha', Jamie. 

To end the wark here's Whistlebirk,* 
Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie ; 

And Maxwell true o' sterling blue : 
And we'll be Johnstones a', .Jamie. 

1 Birkwhistle : a Galloway laira, ana •i«ctai»- 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



cxv. 

EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 

OF FINTRAY: 

<%9 TETJ C1.OSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN 

• 1 lAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOB 

THr iOMFRlES LISTRICT OF BOROUGHS. 

[I* . am too little a man," said Burns, in the not* to 
fiStray, which accompanied this poem, "to have any 
»ol t.ca attacliment: I am deeply indebted to, and have 
tA* warmest v^eneration for individuals of both parties: 
but a man who hj> ' it in his power to be the father of a 
eountry, ?nd who a«-ts like his Grace of Queensberry, is 
a charactei ;>at one cannot speak of with patience." 
This Epistle was nist printed in iny edition of Burns in 
1P34 : I liad the use of the Macmurdo and the A fton ma- 
nuscripts for that purpose: to both families the poet was 
much indebted for many acts of courtesy and kindness.] 

FiXTRAT, my stay in worldly strife, 
Friend 0' my muse, friend o' my life, 

Are ye as idle's I am ? 
Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg, 
O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg. 

And ye shall see me try him. 

• I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears, 
Who left the all-important cares 

Of princes and their darlings ; 
And, bent on winning borough towns, 
Came shaking hands wi' wabster lowns, 

And kissing barefit carlins. 

Combustion thro' our boroughs rode, 
Whistling his roaring pack abroad 

Of mad unmuzzled lion^; 
As Queensberry buflF and blue unfurl' d, 
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd 

To every Whig defiance. 

But cautious Queensberry left the war, 
Ih' unmanner'd dust might soil his star; 

Besides, he hated bleeding: 
But left behind him heroes bright. 
Heroes in Csesarean fight. 

Or Ciceronian pleading. 

' for a throat like huge Mons-meg, 
Tc muster o'er each ardent Whig 

Beneath Drumlanrig's banner; 
Heroes ani heroines commix, 
All in the field of politics. 

To win immortal honour. 

John M'Mnrdo, Esq., of Drumlanrig. 
FereuBson of Ci nigdarroch. 
Ri del of Friars-Carsft 



M'Murdo' a.nd his lovely spouse, 

(Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows !) 

Led on the loves and graces: 
She won each gaping burge.ss' hoart, 
While he, all-conquering, play'd his part 

Among their wives and lasses. 

Craigdarroch^ led a light-arm'd corps, 
Tropes, metaphors and figures pour, 

Like Hecla streaming thunder: 
Glenriddel,^ skill'd in rusty coins. 
Blew up each Tory's dark designs. 

And bar'd the treason under. 

In either wing two champions fought, 
Redoubted Staig"* who set at nought 

The wildest savage Tory 
And Welsh,^ who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground, 
High-wav'd his magnum-bonum round 

With Cyclopeian fury. 

Miller brought up th' artillery ranks, 
The many-pounders of the Banks, 

Resistless desolation! 
While Maxwelton, that baron bold, 
'Mid Lawson's^ port intrench'd his hold, , 

And threaten'd worse damnation 

To these what Tory hosts oppos'd. 
With these what Tory warriors clos'd. 

Surpasses my descriving? 
Squadrons extended long and large. 
With furious speed rush to the charge. 

Like raging devils driving. 

What verse can sing, what prose narrate, 
The butcher deeds of bloody fate 

Amid this mighty tulzie ! 
Grim Horror grinn'd — pale Terror roar'd, 
As Murthe? at his thrapple shor'd. 

And hell mix'd in the brulzie. 

As higkland craigs by thunder cleft, 
When lightnings fire the stormy lift, 

Hurl down with crashing rattle 
As flames among a hundred woods ; 
As headlong foam a hundred floods ; 

Such is the rage of battle I 

The stubborn Tories dare to die ; 
As soon the rooted oaks would fly 

Before the approaching fellew. 



4 Provost Staig of Dumfries. 

6 Sheriff Welsh. 

6 A wine-merchant in Durafrioi 



170 THE POETICAL WORKS 


The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar, 




When all his wintry billows pour 


XCI. 


Against the Buchan Bullers. 


ON 


Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night, 


CAPTAIN GROSE'S 


De^vAvted Whigs enjoy the fight, 


PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, 


And think on former daring : 


y 


The mufaed murtherer' of Charles 


COLLECTING THK 


T^? Magna Charter flag unfurls, 


ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINaCOM. 


All deadly gules it's bearing. 


[This " fine, fat fodgel wight" was a cleve' -.nan, « 




skilful antiquary, and fond of wit and wine. He wai 


Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame, 


well acquainted with heraldry, and was conversant with 


Bold iScringeour^ follows gallant Graham,3 


the weapons and the armour of his own and other coun- 


Auld Covenanters shiver. 


tries. He found his way to Friars-Carse, in the Val« 




of Nith, and there, at the social ''board of Gleuriddel,'-' 


(Forgive, forgive, much-wrong'd Montrose ! 


for the first time saw Burns. The Englishman heard, 11 


Now death and hell engulph thy foes, 


IB said, with wonder, the sarcastic sallies and eloquent 


Thou liv'st on high for ever !) 


bursts of the inspired Scot, who, in his turn, surveyed 




with wonder the remarkable corpulence, and listened 


Still o'er the field the combat burns, 


with pleasure to the independent sentiments and humour- 




ous turns of conversation in the joyous Englishman. 


The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns ; 


This Poem was the fruit of the interview, and it is said 


But fate the word has spoken : 


that Grose regarded some passages as rather personal 1 


For woman's wit and strength o' man, 




Alas ! can do but what they can ! 


Hear, Land o' Cakes and brither Scots, 


The Tory ranks are broken. 


Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's ; 




If there's a hole in a' your coats, 


that my een were flowing burns, 


I rede you tent it : 


My voice a lioness that mourns 


A chiel'B amang you taking notes, 


Her darling cubs' undoing 1 


And, faith, he'll prent it I 


That I might greet, that I might cry, 




While Tories fall, while Tories fly, 


If in your bounds ye chance to light 


And furious Whigs pursuing I 


Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight. 




0' stature short, but genius bright, 


What Whig but melts for good Sir James 1 


That's he, mark weel — 


Dear to his country by the names 


And wow ! he has an unco slight 


Friend, patron, benefactor! 


0' cauk and keel. 


Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save I 




And Hopeton falls, the generous brave ! 


By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin, 


And Stewart, ** bold as Hector. 


Or kirk deserted by its riggin. 




It's ten to one ye'll find him snug in 


Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow ; 


Some eldritch part. 


And Thurlow gr~wl a curse of woe ; 


Wi* deils, they say, L — d save's ! colleaguin 


And Melville melt in wailing ! 


At some black art. 


How Fox and Sheridan rejoice ! 




And Burke shall sing, Prince, arise. 


Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer, 


Thy power is all prevailing I 


Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamour. 




And you deep read in hell's black grammar, 


For y jar poor friend, the Bard, afar 


Warlocks and witches; 


He only hears and sees the war. 


Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer. 


A cool spectator purely ; 


Ye midnight b s I 


Bo, when the storm the forests rends, 




The robin in the hedge descends. 


It's tauld he was a sodger bred. 


And sober chirps securely 


And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 


1 The executioner of Charles i. was masked. 


3 Graham, Marquis of Montrose, 


2 Serin .geour, Lioro l)unaee. 


4 Stewart of Hillside. 



But now he's quat the spurtle-blade, 

And dog-skiu wallet, 

And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets : 
Rusty aim caps and jinglin' jackets, 
WaJ haud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid ; 
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, 

Afore the flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 

A lid Tubal-Cain's fire-shool and fender; 

Ihat which distinguished the gender 

0' Balaam's ass ; 
A broom-stick o' the witch o' Endor, 

Weel shod wi' brass. 

Forbye, he'll shape you aflf, fu' gleg, 
The cut of Adam's philibeg : 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kail gully. — 

But wad ye see him in his glee. 
For meikle glee and fun has he, 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him ; 
And port, port! shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'll see him 1 

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chiel, Grose ! — 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say. Shame fa' thee ! 



OXVII. 

inilTTEN IN A WRAPPER, 
KHCL081N0 

A LETTER TO CAPTAIN GROSE. 

[Burns MTote out some antiquarian and legendary 
neinoranda respecting certain rums in Kyle, and en- 
tlosed them in a sheet of a paper to Cardonnel, a north- 
ern antiqua-y. As his mind teemed vvitli poetry he 
•ould not OH he afterwards said, let the opportunity, pass 



of sending a rhyming inquiry after hie fat friend, a^ 
Cardonnel spread the condoling inquiry over the Noi Ih— 
"Is he slan by Highlan' bodies? 
And eaten like a wether-haggis ?"J 

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? 

Igo and ago. 
If he's amang his friends or foes ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he south or is he north ? 

Igo and ago. 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highlan' bodies? 

Igo and ago. 
And eaten like a wether-haggis ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

Igo and ago. 
Or haudin' Sarah by the wame ? 

Iram, coram, iago. 

Where'er he be, the L — d be near him I 

Igo and ago. 
As for the deil, he daur na steer him! 

Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit the enclosed letter, 

Igo and ago. 
Which will oblige your humble debtor, 

Iram, coram, dago 

So may he hae auld stanes in store^ 

Igo and ago. 
The very stanes that Adam bore, 

Iram, coram, aago. 

So may ye get in glad poshessiorfl, 

Igo and ago. 
The coins o' Satan's coronation ' 

Iram, coram dagi. 



cxviir. 

TAM 0' SHANTER 

A TALE. 
" Of brownys and of bogilis full is this buk« ' 

GaWIN DoCJIAb 

[This is a West-country legend, embellished \,y 
genius. No other Poem in our larij^u;i<,^e displays sucj 
variety of power, in the same number of linoa. It wai 



172 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



ivritter as an inducement to Grose to admit Alloway- 
Kirk into his work on the' Antiquities of Scotland ; and 
written with such ecstasy, that the poet shed tears in 
the moments of composition. The walk in which it was 
conceived, on the braes of EUisland, is held in remem- 
brance in the vale, and pointed out to poetic inquirers '. 
while the scene where the poem is hud — the crumbling 
ruins - the place where the chapman perished in the snow 
—the iree on which the poor mother of Mungo ended her 
•OTtows — the cairn where tne murdered child was found 
by the hunters — ana ine old bridge over which Maggie 
here her astonished master wlien all hell was in pursuit, 
ta» first rate objects of inspection and inquiry in the 
"Lund o{ Burns." "In the inimitable tale of Tam 
O' Shante ," says Scott "Burns has left us sufficient 
evidence of his ability to combine the ludicrous with the 
awful, and even the horrible. No poet, with the exception 
of Shakspeare, ever possessed the power of exciting the 
most varied and discordant emotions with such rapid 
transitions."] 

When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors neebors meet, 
As market-days are wearing late, 
An' folk begin to tak' the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
An' gettin' fou and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles. 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Where sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tam O'Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 
For honest men and bonny lasses.) 
Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise, 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
Sha tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou wasna sober; 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on. 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; 
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesy'd, that late or soon. 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthen'd sage advices. 
The husband frae the wife despises! 



But to our tale : — Ae market night, 
Tam had got planted unco right ; 
Fast by an ingle bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that (Jrank divinely ; 
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; 
They had been fou' for weeks thegither ! 
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clattcjr ; 
And ay the ale was growing better : 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious ; 
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious ; 
The Souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:* 
The storm without might rair and rustle-— 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ! 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious. 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread. 
You seize the fiow'r, its bloom is shed; 
Or like the snow falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts for evei ; 
Or like the borealis race. 
That flit ere you can point their place ; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm. 
Nae man can tether time or tide ; 
The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-Stan^ 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 
And sic a night he taks the road in 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speody gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd • 
That night, a child might understand. 
The de'il had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet 

1 VARIATION. 

The cricket raised its cheering cr>', 
The kittien chas'd its tail in jov. 



OF ROBEET BURNS 



17 



Whiles glow'ring round -wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bo2;les catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-A loway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. — 

By this time he was cross the foord, 
Wliire in the »naw the chapman smoor'd; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane* 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn. 
Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'. 
Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods j 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing ; 
ind loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn ! 

What dangers thou canst make us scorn! 

Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 

Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil! 

The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 

Fair play, he car'd nae deils a boddle. 

But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 

'Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 

8he ventur'd forward on the light; 

And wow ! Tam saw an unco sighti 

Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 

Nae cotillion brent new frae France, 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels^ 

Put life and mettle in their heels : 

A winnock-bunker in the east, 

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 

To gie them music was his charge ; 

He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, 

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 

Coffins stood round, like open presses ; 

That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 

And by some devilish cantrip slight 

Each in its cauld hand held a light — 

By which heroic Tam was able 

To note upon the haly table, 

A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ; 

' VARIATION. 

Thi ^e lawrers' tomrues turn'd iiiaide out; 
AVi' let seain'd like a beggar's clout ; 



A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; 
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; 
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had mang.edj 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft. 
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft:' 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekil 
'Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to th* wark, 
And linket at it in her sark ! 

Now Tam, Tam ! had thae been queani 
A' plump and strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen. 
Been snaw white seventeen hunder linen, 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them ofi" my hurdles, 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, 
Lowping an' flinging on a cummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' bravfli*, 

There was a winsome wench and walie. 

That night enlisted in the core, 

(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ; 

For mony a beast to dead she shot 

And perisb'd mony a bonnie boat, 

And shook baith meikle corn and heai, 

And kept the country-side in fear.) 

Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, 

That, while a lassie, she had worn, 

In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 

It was her best, and she was vauntie-- 

Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie. 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie 
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches^ 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches! 

And priests' hearts rotten black as muck, 
Lay stinking vile, in ever>' neuk. 



174 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



But here my muse her wing maun cour ; 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was and Strang,) 
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
And thought his very een enrich'd ; 
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main: 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tam tint his reason a' thegither, 
And roars out. "Weel done, Cutty-sark'" 
And in an instant all was dark: 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 

When plundering herds assail their byke ; 

As open pussie's mortal foes, 

When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 

As eager runs the market-crowd. 

When " Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; 

So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 

Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow. 

Ah, Tam ! Ah, Tam ! thou'U get thy fairin' 1 

In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'I 

In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' ! 

Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 

Now dc thy speedy utmost, Meg, 

And win the key-stane' of the brig ; 

There at them thou thy tail may toss, 

A running stream they darena cross ! 

But ere the key-stane she could make, 

The fient a tail she had to shake ! 

For Nannie, far before the rest, 

Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 

And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; 

But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 

Ae spring brought ofi" her master hale, 

But left behind her ain gray tail : 

The carlin claught her by the rump, 

And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read. 
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed: 
Wliene'er to Irink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think ! ye may buy the joys o'er dear — 
Remember Tam O'Shanter's mare. 



I It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil 
puts, have no power to follow a poor wight any fur- 
Jiar than the middle of the next running- stream. It may 
It prope^ Ute?wise to mention to the benigi ted traveller, 



CXIX. 
ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB 

TO THE 
PRESIDENT OP THE HIGHLAND SOCIETl. 

[This Poem made its first appearance,- as 1 was assured 
by my friend the late Thomas Pringle, in the Scots Ma- 
gazine, for February, 1818, and was printed from t,*t 
original in the handwriting of Burns. It was headii 
thus, " To the Right Honourable the Earl of Breadal- 
ryne, President of the Right Honourable and Honour- 
able the Highland Society, which met on the 23d of May 
last, at the Shakspeare, Covent Garden, to concert waya 
and means to frustrate the designs of four hundred 
Highlanders, who, as the Society were informed by Mr. 
M. , of A s, were so audacious as to attempt an es- 
cape from their lawfu.. lairds and masters, whose property 
they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdo 
nald, of Glengarry, to the wilds of Canada, in search of 
that fantastic thing — Liberty." The Poem was o--'ra- 
municated by Burns to his friend Rankine of Adam Will, 
in Ayrshire.] 

Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours, 
Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors ; 
Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar, 
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, 
May twin auld Scotland o' a life 
She likes — as lambkins like a knife. 

Faith, you and A s were right 

To keep the Highland hounds in sight ; 
I doubt na ! they wad bid nae better 
Than let them ance out owre the water ; 
Then up amang the lakes and seas 
They'll mak' what rules and laws they please 
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin' ; 
May set their Highland bluid a ranklin' ; 
Some Washington again may head them, 
Or some Montgomery fearless lead them, 
Till God knows what may be effected 
When by such heads and hearts directed— 
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire 
May to Patrician rights aspire ! 
Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville, 
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile, 
An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons 
To bring them to a right repentance. 
To cowe the rebel generation, 
An' save the honour o' the nation ? 

They an' be d d ! what right hae they 

To meat or sleep, or light o' day ? 
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom. 
But what your lordship likes to gie them ? 

that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger th«r» 
may be in his going forward, there is much more hazari 
in turning back. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



17T> 



But hear, my lord ! Glengarry, hear ! 

Vour hand's owre light on them, T fear; 

Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, 

I canna' say but they do gaylies ; 

They lay aside a* tender mercies, 

An' tirl the hallions to the birses ; 

Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, 

They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit; 

But smash them! crash them a' to spalls I 

An' rot the dyvors i' the jails ! 

The young dogs, swinge them to the labour; 

Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober ! 

The hizzies, if theyre aughtlins fawsont, 

Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd! 

An' if the wives an' dirty brats 

E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts, 

Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas', 

Frightin' awa your deuks an' geese, 

Get out a horsewhip or a jowler, 

The langest thong, the fiercest growler. 

An' gar the tattered gypsies pack 

Wi' a' their bastards on their back ! 

Go on, my Lord ! I lang to meet you, 

An' in my house at hame to greet you ; 

Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle, 

Tt? benmost neuk beside the ingle, 

At my right han' assigned your seat 

'Tween Herod's hip an Polycrate, — 

Or if you on your station tarrow, 

Between Almagro and Pizarro, 

A seat I'm sure ye're weel deservin't; 

\n^ till ye come — Your humble rervant, 

Beelzebub, 
June l»t, Anno Mundi 5790. 



cxx. 

TO 

ZOB.A TAYLOR. 

rT^:*i«v ,t appears, vas, in one of hie excnreions in 
rev* -ve i<r<i;»/i8, likeW to be detained at Wanlockhead : 
Wi roods ^ere slippt/rj' with ice, his mare kept her feet 
*^lh diffijv. ty, and /*il the blacksmiths of the village 
ve-e pr.* eng^aged. To Mr. Taylor, a person of influence 
n ♦•.he pince, the poet, m despair, addressed this little 
Poom, t egging his interference : Taylor spoke to a smith; 
riie saith flew to his tor)ls, sharpened or frosted the 
■hoes and it is snid li"ed for tliirty years to boast that he 
had " never been well paid bat ance, and that was by a 
post, who paid him in money, paid him ia drink, and 
Y\ I him in verse."] 

With Pegasus upon a day, 
Apollo ^eary Oying, 



Through frosty hills the journey lay, 
On foot the waj was plying, 

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus 

Was but a sorry walker ; 
To Vulcan then Apollo goes. 

To get a frosty calker. 

Obliging Vulcan fell to work. 
Threw by his coat and bonnet. 

And did Sol's business in a crack, 
Sol paid him with a sonnet. 

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, 

Pity my sad disaster; 
My Pegasus is poorly shod — 

I'll pay you like my master. 

KOBEBT BoRllft. 

Ramages, 3 cr clock ^ {no dafe.) 



CXXI. 
LAMENT 

OP 

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, 

ON THE APPROACH OF SPUING. 

[The poet communicated this " Lament" to his friwa, 
Dr. Moore, in February, 1791, but it was composed abon 
the close of the preceding year, at the request of Lady 
Winifred Mnxwell Constable, of Terrengles, the .-ast in 
direct descent of the noble and ancient house of Max- 
well, of Nithsdale. Burns expressed himself more than 
commonly pleased with this composition; nor was he un 
rewarded, for Lady Winifred gave him a valuable snuff 
box, with the portrait of the unfortunate Mary on the lid 
The bed still keeps its place in Terreaglesj on wl.ich tha 
queen slept as she was on her w-ay to take refuge with 
her cruel and treacherous cousin, Elizabeth ; and a lettet 
from her no less unfortunate grandson, Charles the First, 
calling the Maxwells to arm in his cause, is preserved il 
the family archives.] 

1. 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea: 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streama, 

And glads the azure skies, 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 



Now lav'rocks wake the merry vaorm 
Aloft on dewy wing; 



176 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



The merle, in his noontide bow'r, 
Makes woodland echoes ring ; 

The mavis wild wi' mony a note^ 
Sings drowsy day to rest : 

In love and freedom they rejoice, 
Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 



N ;w 'olooms the lily by the hank, 

Tk) primrose down the brae; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen, 

And milk-white is the slae ; 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang I 



I was the Queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy I hae been ; 
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, 

As blythe lay down at e'en: 
And I'm the sov'reign o' Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands 

And never-ending care. 

V. 

But as for thee, thou false woman ! 

My sister and my fae, 
Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae ! 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 



My son ! my son ! may kinder Btars 

Upon thy fortune shine ; 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee : 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend 

Remember him for me ! 



! soon, to me, may summer suns 
Nae mair light up the morn ! 

Mae mair, to me, the autumn winds 
Wave o'er the yellow coral 



And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring 

Bloom on my peaceful grave I 



CXXII. 

THE WHISTLE. 

["As the authentic prose history," says Burns, «'oi 
the 'Whistle' is curious, I shall here give it. In thi 
train of Anne of Denmark, when she eaine to Scotland 
with our James the Sixth, there came over alio a Danish 
gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and q 
matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony 
whistle, wliich at the commencement of the orgies, he 
laid on the table, and whoever was the last able to blow 
it, everybody else being disabled by the potency of the 
bottle, was to carry off the whistle as a tropliy of victory. 
The Dane produced credentials of his victories; without 
a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, 
Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in 
Germany; and challenged the Scotch Bacchanalians to 
the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknow- 
ledging their inferiority. After many overthrows on the 
part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sii 
Robert Lawrie, of Maxwelton, ancestor of tlie present 
worthy baronet of that name ; who, after three days and 
three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian unlei 
the table, 

' And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill.' 

"Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, 
afterwards lost the whistle to Walter Riddel, of Glen- 
nddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's.-— On- 
Friday, the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, the 
whistle was once more contended for, as related in 
the ballad, by the present Sir Robert of Maxwelton; 
Robert Riddel, Esq , of Glenriddel, lineal descendant 
and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the whis- 
tle, and in whose family it had continued ; and Alexandei 
Fergusson, Esq., of Craigdarroch, likewise descended 
of the great Sir Robert ; which last gentleman carried off 
the hard-wfon honours of the field." 

The jovial contest took place in the' dining-room of 
Friars-Carse, in the presence of the Bard, who dranlj 
bottle and bottle about with them, and seemed quite d:s 
posed to take up the conqueror when the day dawned. J 

I SING of a whistle, a whistle of worth, 
I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North, 
Was brought to tbe court of our good Scottisn 

king. 
And long with this whistle all Scotland shall 

ring. 

Old Loda,' still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall— 

1 See Ossian's Carie-thura. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



1:7 



*■* This whistle's your challenge — to Scotland get 

o'er, 
And drink them to hell, Sir ! or ne'er see me 

more l" 

Old poets hare sung, and old chronicles tell, 
iS'hat champions ventur'd, what champions fell; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
And blew on his whistle his requiem shrill. 

rill Robert, the Lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, 
Cnmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea, 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

T^us Eobert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd; 
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd; 
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood. 
The jr^vial contest again have renew'd. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of 

flaw; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and 

law; 
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins ; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as 

oil. 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, 
And once more, in claret, try which was the 

man. 

"By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel re- 
plies, 
** Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,> 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times 
o'er." 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, 
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his 

friend, 
tiaii, toss down the whistle, the prize of the 

field. 
And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield. 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 
Fo noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 
But for wine and for welcome not more known 

to fame 
Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely 

dame. 



• S«e Johnson's Tour to the Hebrid«» 
12 



A bard was selected to witness the fray, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, 
And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy; 
In the bands of old friendship and kindred 80 

set. 
And the bands grew the tighter the more they 

were wet. 

Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, 
And vow'd that to leave them he was quitt 

forlorn. 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd find them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night. 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, , 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestcw 
did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, 
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; 
A high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine- 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end , 
But who can with fate and quart-bumpers cod- 

tend? 
Though fate said — a hero shall perish in light j 
So up rose bright Phoebus — and down fell th« 

knight. 

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink ; — 
" Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall 

sink ; 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme. 
Come — one bottle more — and have at the sub- 
lime ! 

" Thy line, that ha-»<j struggled for freedom trilSi 

Bruce. 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce ; 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay , 
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of 

day!" 



178 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



OXXIII. 



ELEGY 



MISS BURNET, 

OP MONBODDO. 

[This beautiful and accomplished lady, the heavenly 
Burnet, as Burns loved to call her, was daughter to the 
odd and the elegant, the clever and the whimsical Lord 
Monboddo. " In domestic circumstances," savs Robert 
Ciiambers, "Monboddo was particularly unfortunate. 
Hib wife, a very beautiful woman, died in child-bed. His 
Bon, a promising boy, in whose education he took great 
relight, was liltewise snatched from his affections by a 
premature death ; and his second daughter, in personal 
lov^eliness one of the first women of the age, was cut off 
by consumption, when only twenty-five years old." Her 
name was Elizabeth.] 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, 
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ? 
In richest ore the brightest jewel set! 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 
As by his noblest work, the Godhead best is 
known. 

(n vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves ; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, 
Fe woodland choir that chant your idle loves. 

Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more ! 

Fe heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens ; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes 
stor'd ; 
Te rugged clifi"s, o'erhanging dreary glens, 

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their 
worth, 

Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ? 
And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth, 

And not a muse in honest grief bewail ? 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty s pride, 
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the 
spheres ; 

But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide. 
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and 
care ; 

9o leck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree ; 
6i from it ravisL'd, leaves it ]>leak and bare. 



CXXIV. 



LAMENT 



JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

[Burns lamented the death of this kind and accmv 
plished nobleman with melancholy sincerity : he mcr»« 
over named one of his sons for him: he went into moai» 
ing when he heard of his death, and he sung of h.s merin 
in a strain r-it destined soon to lose the place it has tak©« 
among verses which record the names t f the noble and 
the generous. He died January 30, 1791, in the fcTt%-« 
second year of his age. James Cunningham was suc- 
ceeded in his title by his brother, and with him expired, 
in 1796, the last of a race, whose name- is intimately 
connecttd with tlie History of Scotland, from the day» 
of Malcolm Canmore.] 

I. 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills. 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream : 
Beneath a craggy steep, a bard, 

Laden with years and meikle pain, 
In loud lament bewail'd his lord. 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 



He lean'd him to an ancient aik, [years ; 

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with 
His locks were bleached white with time, 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ; 
And as he touch' d his trembling harp, 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang, 
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

III. 

" Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, 

The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay, 

Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; 
But nocht in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 



" I am a bending aged tree. 

That long has stood the wind and rainf 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hold of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my I loom ; 
But I maun lie before the storm, 

And ithers plant them in my room. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



ITS 



V. 

•* I've seen sae mony changefu' years, 

Oq earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, 

I bear alane my lade o' care, 
For silent, low, on beds of dust, 

IJe a' that would my sorrows share. 



** And last (the sum of a' my griefs !) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flow'r amang our barons bold. 

His country's pride ! his country's stay- 
in weary being now I pine. 

For a' the life of life is dead, 
And hope has left my aged ken. 

On forward wing for ever fled. 



" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of woe and wild despair ; 
Awake ! resound thy latest lay — 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
And thou, my last, best, only fnend, 

That fillest an untimely tomb. 
Accept this tribute from the bard [gloom. 

Though brought from fortune's mirkest 

VIII. 

•* In poverty's low barren vale 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round , 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou fouud'st me, like the morning sun, 

That melts the fogs in limpid air, 
The friendless bard and rustic song 

Became alike thy fostering care. 



*' ! why has worth so short a date ? 

While villains ripen gray with time; 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great. 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! 
<Vhy did I live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of woe !— 
had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low. 



' The bridegroom may forget the bride 
Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 

The monarch may forget the crown 
That on h'va head an L rar has oeen ; 



The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 

But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 
And a' that thou hast done for me l" 



cxxv. 

LINES 

SENT TO 

SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, BART., 

O F WHI TEFOORD. 
WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. 

[Sir John Whitefoord, a name of old standing i| 
Ayrshire, inherited the love of his family for literatuie, 
and interested himself early in the fame and fortunes of 
Burns.] 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, 
Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly 

fear'st. 
To thee this votive offering I impart, 
The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 
The friend thou valuedst, I, the patron, 3ov'd ; 
His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd, 
We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone. 
And tread the dreary path to that dark worI4 

unknown. 



CXXVI. 



ADDRESS 



THE SHADE OF THOMSON, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM WITH BATi. 

[" Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr. Buim 
to miike one at the coronation of tlie bust of Thomson, 
on Ednam Hill, on the 22d of Septemher : for which day 
perhaps his muse may inspire an ode suited to the occa« 
sion. Suppose Mr. Burns should, ienving the Nith, go 
across the country, and mfiet the Tweed at the nenrest 
point from his farm, and, wandering along the pastoral 
ban'risofThomson'M pure parent stream, catch inspiration 
in the devious walk, till he finds Lord Buchan sitting on 
the ruins of Dryburgh. There tlie Commendator wJl 
give him a hearty welcomo, and try to light his lamp a< 
the pure flame of native gei ius, upon the altar of Cale- 
donian virtue." Such was Die invitation of the Earl of 
Buchan to Burns. To request the poe^, to lay down hit 
sickle when his harvest was half reaped, and travera« 



180 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



3ne of the wildest and most untrodden ways in Scotland, 

for the purpose of looking at the fantastic coronation of 
the b;id bust of an excellent poet, was worthy of Lord 
Buchan. The poor bard made answer, that a week's 
dbsence in the middle of his harvest was a step he durst 
uot venture upon — but he sent this Poem. 

The poet's manuscript affords the following interesting 
Tariations: — 

" Whi.s BDld-eyed Spring, a virgin coy, 

UnfoUs her verdant mantle sweet, 
Or pranks the sod in frolic joy, 
A carpet for her youthful feet : 

"While Summer, vv^ith a matron's grace, 
Walks stately in the cooling shade, 

And oft delighted loves to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

" While Autumn, benefactor kind. 

With age's hoary honours clad. 
Surveys, with self-approving mind. 

Each creature on his bounty fed." 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 
Unfolds her tender mantle green. 

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, 
Or tunes -^olian strains between : 

While Summer, with a matron grace, 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

While Autumn, benefactor kind, 
By Tweed erects his aged head. 

And sees, with self-approving mind, 
Each creature on his bounty fed : 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar. 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : 

So long, sweet Poet of the year ! 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



CXXVII. 
TO 

ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., 

OF FINTRAT. 

By this Poem Burns prepared the way for his humble 
TB^uest to be removed to a district more moderate in its 
feoancls than one which extended over ten country 
paiisiies, and exposed him both to fatigue and exf-anse. 



This wish was expressed in prose, and was in die tinu 
attended to, for t'intray was a gentleman at once kiott 
and considerate.] 

Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg. 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg ; 
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest ;) 
Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail ? 
(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale, 
And hear him curse the light he first survey' d, 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming tradfl t 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature ! I arraign ; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain : 
The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
One shakes the forests, and one spurns tbt 

ground : 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell; 
Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour^ 
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power; 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles insure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug. 
The priest and hedgehog in their robes are 

snug; 
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, 
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear ani 

darts ; — 
But, oh ! thou bitter stepmother and hard, 
To thy poor fenceless, naked child — the Bard I 
A thing unteachable in world's skill. 
And half an idiot too, more helpless still ; 
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun ; 
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn. 
And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn: 
No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur, 
Clad in rich dullness' comfortable fur ; — 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride. 
He bears the unbroken blast from every side , 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics ! — appall'd I venture on the name> 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fam» 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ! 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung. 
By blockheads' daring into madness stung ; 
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, 
By miscreants torn, wVo ne'er one sprig must 
wear: 



OF KOBERT BURNS. 



181 



Foil'i, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife, 
The hapless poet flounders on through life ; 
till, fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd. 
And fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd, 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, 
Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page, 
He heeds or feels no more . the ruthless critic's 
rage ! 

So, \y some hedge, the gen'rous steed deceas'd, 
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast ; 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

dullness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 

Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills th^ golden cup. 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up ; 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well de- 
serve, 
They only wonder ''some folks" do not starve. 
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog. 
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
And thro' disastrous night. they darkling grope, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 
And just conclude that "fools are fortune's 

care." 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest'b shocks, 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 

Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train. 

Not such the workings of their moon-struck 

brain ; 
In equanimity they never dwell, 
By turns in soaring heav'n or vaulted hell 

1 dread thee, fate, relentless and severe. 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear! 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn, the truly n>^ble, lies in dust; 
(Fie J, like the sun eclips'd a« noon appears, 
Anl left us darkling in a world of tears:) 

I Lear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ! — 
Fintray, my other stay, long bless and spare I 
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown ; 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ! 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path ; 
Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath, 
R iti ma^y a filial tear circling the bed Df death! 



CXXVIII. 



ROBEET GRAHAM, ESQ., 

OP FINTRAY. 
ON RECEIVING A. FAVOUR. 

[Graham of Fintray not only oltained for the poet tJSl 
appointment in the Excise, which, while he livert l« 
Edinburgh, he desired, but he alsc removed huTi; as fc.( 
wished, to a better district; and wnen Imputations wer« 
thrown out against his loyalty, he defended him with 
obstinate and successful eloquence. Fintray did all that 
was done to raise Burns out of the toiling humility of hii 
condition, and enable him to serve the muse without fea/ 
of want.] 

I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns ; 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns. 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new. 
The gift still dearer, as the giver, you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light I 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night : 
If aught that giver from my mind efface j 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres. 
Only to number out a villain's years ! 



CXXIX. 

A VISION. 

[This Vision of Liberty descended on Burns amc^g tu 
magnificent ruins of the College of Lincluden, whica 
stand on the junction of the Cluden and tlie IMith, u. shorr 
mile above Dumfries. He gave us the Vision; peihaps. 
he dared not in thv.se yeasty times venture on the sonj^ . 
which his secret visitant poured from her lips. Th€ 
scene is cliiefly copied from nature : the sweilings oi"th<l 
Nith, tho bowlings of the fox on the hill, md the cry e,{ 
the owl, unite at times with the natura beauty of iht 
spot, and give it life and voice. These ruins wej« a 
favourite haunt of the poet.] 

As I stood by yon roofless tower, 

Where the wa'-flower scents the drwy air, 

Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower 
And tells the midnight moon her care • 

The winds were laid, the air was still, 
The stars they shot along the sky ; 

The fox was howling on the hill, 
And the distant echoing glens reply. 



182 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Tlie stream, adown its hazelly path, 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,* 
Whose distant roaring swells and fa's. 

The canld blue north was streaming forth 
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ; 

Athort the lift they start and shift, 
Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 

IBy heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, 
And, by the moonbeam, shook to see 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.^ 

Had I a statue been o' stane. 
His darin' look had daunted me ; 

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, 
The sacred posy — 'Libertie!' 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow. 

Might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hearj 

But, oh ! it was a tale of woe, 
As ever met a Briton's ear. 

He sang wi' joy the former day, 
He weeping wail'd his latter times ; 

But what he said it was nae play, — 
I, winna ventur't in my rhymes. 



cxxx. 



JOHN MAXWELL OF TERRAUGHTY, 

ON HIS BIRTH-BAY. 

[John Maxwell of Terraughty and Munshes, to whom 
these verses are addressed, though descended from the 
Earls of Nithsdale, cared little about lineage, and claim- 
ed merit only from a judgment sound and clear — a know- 
ledge of business which penetrated into all the concerns 
of life, and a skill in handling the most difficult subjects, 
which was considered unrivalled. Under an austere 
manner, he hid much kindness of heart, and was in a 
fair way of doing an act of gentleness when giving a re- 
'nsal. He loved to meet Burns : not that he either cared 
for or cl Tfiprehended poetry; but he was pleased with 
klA kcowledge of human nature, and with the keen and 

VARIATIONS. 

1 To join yon river on the Strath. 

2 Now looking over firth and fauld, 

Her horn the pale-fac'd Cynthia rear'd ; 
When, lo, in form of mmstrel auld, 
A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd. 



piercing remarks in which he indulged. He was seveA 
ty-one years old when these verses were written, aih> 
survived the poet twenty years.] 

Health to the Maxwell's vet'ran chief! 
Health, ay unsour'd by care or grief: 
Lispir'd, I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf 

This natal morn ; 
I see thy life is stuff o' prief, 

Scarce quite half wom 

This day thou metes three score eleven, 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
(The second sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka Poet) 
On thee' a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 

If. envious buckles view wi' sorrow 

Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow, 

May desolation's lang teeth'd harrow, 

Nine miles an hour. 
Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In brunstane stoure— 

But for thy friends, and they are mony, 
Baith honest men and lasses bonnie, 
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie. 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny 

Bless them and thee ' 

Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye. 
And then the Deil he daur na steer ye ; 
Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye ; 

For me, shame fa' me, 
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye 

While Burns they ca* me 

Dumfries, 18 Feb 1792. 



CXXXI. 

THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 

AW OCCASIONAL ADDRESS SPOKEN Bl MISS F0STm3fKLLa 
ON HER BENEFIT NIGH/, 

Nov, 26, 1792. 

fJVIiss Fontenelle was one of the actresses wh-^m Wil 
Uamson, the man;)ger, brought for several sen sons tc 
Dumfries: she was young and pretty, indulged jn littl* 
Levities of speech, and rumour added, perhaps ma?icioi.sl7 
levities of action Tlie Rights ot Man had been advo 
cated by Paine, he Rights of Woman bv Hfsry Wj 



OF llOBERT BUllNS. 



183 



Itonacroft, and nought was talked of, but the moral and 
polit'cal regeneration of the world. The line 

" But truce with kings and truce with constitutions," 
f ot an uncivil twist in recitation, from some of the audi- 
•rce. Tlie w. is were eagerly caught up. and had some 
IiiKses VestoweQ on them.] 

Whils Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, 
Ihc fase of timp res and ihi fall of kings; 
While qiiacko of state must each produce his 

plan, 
And even children lisp the Rights of Man ; 
Ami 1 ttis mighty fuss just let me mention, 
The Rights of Woman merit some attention. 

First on the sexes' intermix'd connexion. 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection. 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate. 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate, 
Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. 

Our second Right — but needless here iS caution, 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion. 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum. — 
Th»re was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough, rude man had naughty 

ways; 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, 
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet. 

I^ow, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are fled ; 
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well- 
bred-^ 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) 
Buch conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our 

dearest, 
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low pros- 
tration 
Mr?* humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration! 
\l ^X\t *)lest sphere alouf ve lir^, and move; 
TUe.T') taste that life of lite — ifixnortal love. — 
fimi'et, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares — 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, 
Who is 80 rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings and truce with constitutions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions. 
Let majesty your first attention summon, 
kh ' ga ira ! the majesty of woman ! 



CXXXTT. 
M N D r, 

ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER C'APHICS. 

[The heroine of this rough lampoon was Mrs. Ridd« 
of AVoodleigh Park: a lady young and gay, mu^h of n 
wit, and something of a poetess, and till the houi of hu 
death the friend of Burns himself. She pulled h s dia 
pleasure on her, it is said, by smiling more sweetly thai 
he liked on some "epauletted coxcomus," for so n« 
sometimes designated commissioned officers: the laJy 
soon laughed him out of his mood. We owe to her pen 
an account of her last interview with the poet, writtMJ 
with great beauty and feeling.] 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fireo^ 
How pale is that ch*eek where the rouge lately 
glisten'd ! 
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft 
tired, 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so lia- 
ten'd ! 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await. 

From friendship and dearest affection re- 
mov'd ; 

How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate. 

Thou diest unwept as thou livedst unlov'd 

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear* 
But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true, 

And flowers let us cull for Maria's cold bier. 

We'll search through the garden for each silly 
flower. 
We'll roam through the forest for each idle 
weed; 
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower. 
For none e'er approach'd her but rued th« 
rash deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure t!i« 
lay; 
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen indignation shall dart on her prey, 
Which spurning Contempt shall ledeem froa 
his ire. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect. 
What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam ' 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem 



184 



THE POETICAL YrOEKS 



CXXXIII. 
EPISTLE 

FROM 

ESOPUS TO MARIA. 

fWillJamson, the actor, Colonel Macdouall, Captaic 
Slllespie, and Mrs. Riddel, are the characters which pass 
9V9r 'n« staw' in this strange composition: it is printed 
fjXijsi the Poe ,'s own manuscript, and seems a sort of 
oe'jH urijsg of wrath and contempt, on persons wno, in his 
eyes, gave themselves airs beyond their condition, or 
Iheir merits. The verse of the lady is held up to con- 
tempt and laughter: the satirist celebrates her 

'< Motley foundling fancies, stolen or strayed;" 
■nd has a passing hit at her 

*' Still matchless tongue that conquers all reply."] 

From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, 
Where infamy with sad repentance dwells ; 
Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, 
And deal from iron hands the spare repast ; 
Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin. 
Blush at the curious stranger peeping in ; 
Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar, 
Resolve to drink, nay, half to whore, no inor^ ; 
Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swi'^g. 
Beat hemp for others, riper for th,j stixng : 
From these dire scenes ray wre' jhe'l lines I date. 
To tell Maria her Esopus' CAq. 

*' Alas ! I feel I am no ac'.or here !" 

'Tis real hangmen, reLi scourges bear! 

Prepare, Maria, for a Lorrid tale 

Will turn thy vc.y rouge to deadly pale • 

Will make tby hair, tho' erst from gipsy polled, 

By barber w^oven, and by barber sold. 

Though twit-ted smooth with Harry's nicekit care, 

Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. 

The hero of the mimic scene, no more 

I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar ; 

Or haughty Chieftain, 'mid the din of arms. 

In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms ; 

While sans culottes stoop up the mountain hi^h, 

Ind ?'',eal from me Maria's prying eye. 

Blsel Highland bonnet ! Once my proude?^ 

dreas, 
N"cw prouder still, Maria's temples press. 
I see her wave thy towering plumes afar, 
And call each coxcomb to the wordy war. 
I see her face the first of Ireland's sons,* 
And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze; 
The crafty colonel ^ leaves the tartan'd lines, 
For other wars, where he a hero shines ; 

1 Captain Gillespie. 



The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred. 
Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head ; 
Comes, 'mid a string of coxcombs to display 
That veni, vidi, vici, is his way ; 
The shrinking bard adown the alley skulks, 
And 'dreads a meeting worse thxn Woolwi<}l 

hulks ; 
Though there, his heresies in church und state 
Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate* 
Still she undaunted reels and rattles on. 
And dares the public like a noontide sun. 
(What scandal call'd Maria's janty stagger 
The ricket reeling of a crooKed swagger, 
Whose spleen e'en worse than Burns' venom wlicr 
He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen, — 
And pours his vengeance in the burning line, 
Who christen'd thus Marid's Ijre divine ; 
The idiot strum of vaxiity bemused. 
And even th' abuse of poesy abused ! 
Who caii'd her vei^e, a parish workhouse made 
For mouey fvundling fancies, stolen or stray'd ?) 

A If orkhouse ! ah, that sound awakes my woes, 
And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose ! 
In durance vile here must I wake and weep. 
And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep ; 
That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore^ 
And vermin'd gipsies litter'd heretofore. 

Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagranti 

pour ? 
Must earth no rascal save thyself endure ? 
Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell, 
And make a vast monopoly of hell ? 
Thou know'st, the virtues cannot hate thee worse, 
The vices also, must they club their curse ? 
Or must no tiny sin to others fall, 
( Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all ' 

Maria send me too thy griefs "and cares ; 
In JtV, of thee sure thy Esopus shares. 
As then at all mankind the flag unfurls, 
Who on vny fair one satire's vengeance hurls? 
Who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette, 
A wil ii. follj, and a fool in wit ? 
Who sayR, that •'ool alone is not thy due. 
And quotes vhy ti ^acheries to prove it true ? 
Our force uoitH on ihy foes we'll turn. 
And dare the wa^r with all of woman born: 
For who can write and •^peak a<i tho i and I? 
My periods that deciphering defy, 
And thy still matchless tongue that conquers ♦ii 
reply. 

2 Col. M^c-*,*^**^. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



18» 



CXXXIV. 

POEM 

ON PASTORAL POETRY. 

[Though Gilbert Bun JB says there is some dcutt of 
tn:s Poem being by his brother, and though Robert Cha,a- 
jers declares thtit ae *' has scarcely a doubt that it is not 
?/ the Ayrshire Bard," I must print it as his, for 1 have 
10 doubt on the subject. It was found among the papers 
y the poet, in his o^\^l handwriting : the second, the 
f(>urth. and the concluding verses bear the Burns' stamp, 
which no one has been successful in counterfeiting: 
they resemble the verses of Beattie, to which Chambers 
aas compared them, as little* as the cry of the eagle re- 
lerables the chirp of the wren.] 

Hail Poesie ! thou Nymph reserv'd! 

ta chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd 

Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 

'Mang heaps o' clavers ; 
And och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd 

Mid a' thy favours I 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, 
While load the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang, 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage ? 

In Homer's oraft Jock Milton thrives; 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
Lq thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches ; 
Squire Pope but busvs his skinklin patchc 

heathen tatters ; 
I pass by hundsfs, nameless wretches, 

Tha' ape their be^ie.i. 

En this braw age o' wit anv lear, 
Will nane the Shepherd's wliistle ir ^ir 
Blaw sweetly in its native ai' 

And rura» gr^ce; 
Aiid wi' the far-fam'd Greciaa naare 

A rivsl p'a«.*» '/ 

fes! there is ane; a Scottish caiian — 
There's ane; come forrlt, honest Allan I 
Thou need ua jojk oeliint the hallan, 

A chiel sae clever; 
Vhe teeth o' tir.. i rcay gnaw Tantallan, 

Eat t'lou's fjr ever I 



Thou paints auld nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines. 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell I 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays. 
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; 
Or trots oj haaeliy shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns giay, 
Where Uacklirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves ore nature s sel' ; 
Nae bombast sp^itt-s o' nonsense swell ; 
Nae snap conceits, bat that sweet speli 

0' witciiiu' love; 
That charm that can the strongest quell, 

The sternerit move. 



cxxxv. 

SONxVEl, 

WRITTEN ON THK TTi/ENl f-wiPTH Oif JA-VtTlHT, lf<^. 

THS BIKTHDAT OF HH AUTHOR, Ca n£ir..t(^ ▲ 

THRUSH /iN(? IN > MOiiriN,* \F \.l.K. 

[Burns V/ap fon'' of? saunter in a leafless wood, wher 
the winter ^cor.a howled among the brLnches. These 
charp.ct«r-ist- j lip3s were composed on the morning of liii 
b».Tth''iy, with the Nith at his feet, and the ruins of 
Lirclu'Ien at his side : he is willing to accep; the un 
' ^oki^-for song of the thrush as a fortunate oman.] 

(jiNG on, sweet thrush, upon the leafiess bough, 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy !stra.ln : 
See, aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 

At thy blythe carol clears his fui-row'd brow^ 

So, Ir lone Poverty's dominion drear, 

Sits meek Content with light unanxicus heart, 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part. 

Nor asks if they bring a7ight to hope or fear. 

I thank Thee, Author of this opening day! 

Thou whose bright sua now gildd yon orient 
skies ! 

Riches denied. Thy loon was purer j^ys, 
What wealth could n»jver give nor take away. 

Yet come, thou child cf poverty and care. 
The mite high Heaven bestcff'd, that mite witli 
thee I'll shar«L 



ji86 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



CXXXVI. 
SONNET, 

Oa THE 

^EATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ. 

OF QLENRIDDEI*, 

April, 1794. 

[The deatn of Glencairn, who was his patron, and the 
Hxi^ of Glenriddel, who was his friend, and had, while 
ha lived at Ellisland, been his neighbour, weighed hard 
on the mind of Burns, who, about this time, began to 
regara his own future fortune with more of dismay than 
of hope. Riddel united antiquarian pursuits with those of 
iterature, and experienced all the vulgar prejudices en- 
tertained by the peasantry against those who indulge in 
such researches. His collection of what tlie rustics of 
the vale called "queer quairns and swine-troughs," is 
now scattered or neglected : I have heard a competent 
judge say, that they threw light on both the public and 
domestic history of Scotland.] 

No more, ye warblers of the wood — no more ! 
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul ; 
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant 
stole. 
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest 
roar. 

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes ? 
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps ray friend : 
How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? 

That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where 
Riddel lies. 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe I 
And soothe the "Virtues weeping on this bier: 
The Man of Worth, who has not left his peer, 

Is in his " narrow house" for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again w'*b ioy shall others greet, 
Me, mem'ry of my low» will only meet. 



CXXXVII. 

IMPROMPTU, 

ON MRS. R 'S BIRTHDAY. 

[By compliments such as these lines contain, Burns 
•oothed the smart which his verses " On a lady famed 
for her caprice" mflicted on the accomplished JMrs. 
Riddel.] 

Old Winter, with his frosty beard, 

Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd,— 



What have I done of all the year, 
To bear this hated doom severe ? 
My cheerless suns no pleasure know ; 
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow ; 
My dismal months no joys are crowning. 
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. 

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, 

To counterbalance all this evil ; 

Give me, and I've no more to say, 

Give me Maria's natal day ! 

That brilliant gift shall so enrich me, 

Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match J&94 

'Tis done ! says Jove ; so ends my story, 

And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. 



CXXXVIII. 

LIBERTY. 

A FRAGMENT, 

[Fragments of verse were numerous, Dr. Currie said, 
among the loose papers of the poet. These lines forme^l 
the commencement of an ode commemorating the achieve, 
ment of liberty for America, under the directing genial 
of Washington and Franklin.] 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 
Thee, fam'd for martial deed and sacred song' 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace li» H 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death I 

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep ; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 
Nor give the coward secret breath. 

Is this the power in freedom's war. 

That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing I 



CXXXIX. 

VERSES 

TO A YOUNG LADY. 

[This young 'ady was tie laughter of tho »i«t ■ 
friend, Graham uf Fintrav; and tie gift al uceJ k- t.m» » 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



187 



lopy of George Thomson's Select Scottish Songs: a 
rork which owes many attractions to tlie lyric genius of 
Burns-] 

Here where the Scottish muse immortal lives, 
1:1 fcacreJ strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

Ao.'^^spt the gift; — the' humble he who gives, 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

Bo may no ruffian feeling in thy breast. 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wako his seraph song. 

Or pity's notes in luxury of tears, 

As modest want the tale of woe reveals; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



CXL. 



THE VOWELS. 



[Burns admired genius adorned by learning; but mere 
learnicg without genius lie always regarded as pedantry. 
Those critics who scrupled too much about words he 
ealied eunuchs of literature, and to one, who taxed him 
with v/riting obscure language in questionable grammar, 
he said, " Thou art but a Gretna-green match-maker be- 
tween vowels and consonants I"] 

'TwAS where the birch and sounding thong are 

The noisy domicile of pedant pride; 

Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws, 

And cruelty directs the thickening blows ; 

Upon a time, Sir Abece the great. 

In all his pedagogic powers elate. 

His awful chair of state resolves to mount, 

And call the trembling vowels to account. — 

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, 
But, ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sight! 
His twisted head look'd backward on the way, 
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai! 

Reluctant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous race 
Ihe justling tears ran down his honest face! 
That name I that well-worn name, and all his 

own, 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne I 
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound 
Sot all his mongrel diphthongs can compound; 



And next the title following close behind, 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assigned. 

The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded Y ! 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round. 
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground 

In rueful apprehension enter'd 0, 
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe ; 
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art. 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, 
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew I 

As trembling U stood staring all aghast. 
The pedant in his left hand clutched him fast, 
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd Mm from his sight, 



CXLI. 

VERSES 

TO JOHN RANKINB. 

[With the " rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine," «m 
Adam-hill, in Ayrshire, Burns kept up a will c'-wispish 
sort of a correspondence in rhyme, till the day of hii 
death : these communications, of which this is one, wer€ 
sometimes graceless, but always witty. It is supposed 
that these lines were suggested by Falstaff's account 
of his ragged recruits: — 

"I'll not march through Coventry with them, 
flat !"] 



that's 



Ab day, as Death, that grusome early 
Was driving to the tither warl' 
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad. 
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad ; 
Black gowns of each denomination, 
Aiid thieves of every rank and station. 
From him that wears the star and garter, 
To him that wintles in a halter : 
Ashara'd himsel' to see the wretches, 
Ho mutters, glowrin' at the bitches, 
** By G — d, I'll not be seen behint them, 
Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them. 
Without, at least, ae honest man. 
To grace this d — d infernal clan." 
By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
** L — d G — d !" quoth he, " I have it now, 
There's just the man I want, i' faith !" 
And quickly stoppit Rankiue's breath. 



188 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



CXLII. 
ON SENSIBILITY. 

TO 

HI tlAB AKD MTTCH HONtUREB FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP; 

OF EffXLOP. 

[Thsso verses were occasioned, it is said, by some 
leotuients contained in a communication from Mrs. Dun- 
4)p. That excellent Jady was sorely tried with domestic 
tfflictioas for a time, and to these he appears to allude; 
but he dew.dened the effect of his sympathy, when he 
printed th» stanzac in the Museum, changing the fourtk 
.iue to 

"Dearest Nancy, thou canst tell !" 
and so transferring the whole to another heroine.] 

Sensibility how charming, 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell : 

But distress with horrors arming, 
Thou hast also known too well. 

Fairest flower, behold the lily, 

Blooming in the sunny ray : 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 

See it prostrate on the clay. 

Hear the wood -lark charm the forest, 

Telling o'er his little joys: 
Hapless bird ! a prey the surest. 

To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought, the hidden treasure, 

Finer feeling can bestow ; 
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure. 

Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



CXLIII. 
LINES, 

BENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD 
OFFENDED. 

[Tbe too Irfjspitable board of Mrs. Riddel occasioned 
tties« repentant strains: they were accepted as they 
WBTQ zaeant oy the party. The poet had, it seems, not 
»)Biy spote'* 7' mere titles and rank with disrespect, but 
ftad all'jwed liis tongue unbridled license of speech, on 
the cla m of political importance, and domestic equality, 
which Mary Wolstonecroft and her followers patron- 
ized, at whici Mrs. Riddel affected to be grievously of- 
fended .j 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, 
The fumes of wine infuriate send ; 

^Not aoony madness more astray;) 
Who bu* deplores that hapless friend ? 



Mine was th' insensate frenzied part. 
Ah, why should I such scenes outlive- 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



CXfilV. 
ADDRESS, 

spoken by miss FONTENELLE on her BHKJfifll 
NIGHT. 

[This address was spoken by Miss Fontenelle, at thf 
Dumfries theatre, on the 4th of December, 1795.] 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, 
And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; 
So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, 
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ; 
Said nothing like his works was ever printed ; 
And last, my Prologue-business slyly hinted! 
*« Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of ^ 

rhymes, 
"I know your bent — these are no laughing 

times : 
Can you — but. Miss, I own I have my fears, 
Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears ; 
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence. 
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repent- 
ance ; 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand. 
Waving on high the desolating brand. 
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty 
land ?" 

I could no more — askance the creaiure eyeing, 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for cry* 

ing? 
I'll laugh, that's poz — nay more, the world bIiaSI 

know it ; 
And so your servant ! gloomy Master Poet I 
Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, 
That Misery's another word for Grief; 
I also think — so may I be a bride ! 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh. 
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three guineas do the work of five: 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 189 


Laugh in Misfortune's face— the beldam Tvitcli ! 


Nor with unwilling ear attend 


Bay, vou'U be merry, tho' you can't be rich. 


The moralizing muse. 


Thou other man of care, the vrret?h in love, 


Since thou in all thy youth and charms. 


Who long with jiltish art« and airs hast strove ; 


Must bid the world adieu, 


Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 


(A world 'gainst peace in constant anus) 


Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope — thy 


To join the friendly few. 


neck — 




Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, 


Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 


Peurest to meditate the healing leap : 


Chill came the tempest's lower; 


Would'£t thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf ? 


(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 


Laugh at their follies — laugh e'en at thyself: 


Did nip a fairer flower.) 


Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 




And love a kinder— that's your grand specific. 


Since life's gay scenes must charm no mor^ 




Still much is left behind ; 


To sum up all, be merry, I advise ; 


Still nobler wealth hast thou in store — 


And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 


The comforts of the mind ! 




Thine is the self-approving glow, 






On conscious honour's part ; 


CXLV. 


And, dearest gift of heaven below, 


ON 


Thine friendship's truest heart. 


SEEING MISS FONTENELLE 


The joys refin'd of sense and taste. 


IN A FAVOURITE CHARACTER. 


With every muse to rove : 




And doubly were the poet blest, 


{The good looks and the natural acting of Miss Yon- 


These joys could he improve. 


i«Belle pleased others as well as Burns. I know not to 


iv^hat character in the range of her personations he 




fclludas: she was a favourite on the Dumfries boards.] 
SwEBT naivete of feature. 




. 


Simple, wild, enchanting elf. 




Not to thee, but thanks to nature, 


CXLVII. 


Thou art acting but thyself. 






POETICAL INSCRIPTION 


Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, 




FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPEXDENCK. 


Spurning nature, torturing art ; 




Loves and graces all rejected. 


[It was the fashion of the feverish tiiries c/ the French 


Then indeed thou'dst act a part. 


Revolution to plant trees of Liberty, and Tjiise altars to 


Independence. Heron of Kerroughtra^, a gentlemtn 


K. B. 


widely esteemed in Galloway, was about to engage ic 




an election contest, and these noblo lines served the pur- 




pose of announcing the candidate's sentiments on frw 
dom.] 




CXLVI. 


Thou of an independent mind. 




With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd; 


TO CHLORIS. 


Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brat% 


[Chlons was a Nithsdale beauty. Love and sorrow 


Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; 


vere strongly mingled in her early history : that she did 


Virtue alone who dost revere, 


not look so lovely in other eyes as she did in those of 


Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 


Burns is well known: but he had much of the taste of 
an artist, and admired the elegance of her form, and the 


Approach this shrine, and worship here. 


harmony of her motion, as much as he did her blooming 


• 


fac* and sweet voice] 

Ti3 Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 






Nor thou the gift refuse, 





190 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



CXLVIII. 

THE HERON BALLADS. 

[ballad first.] 

rThi-j IB the first of several party ballads which Burns 
▼rote X) serve Patrick Heron, of Kerroughtree, in two 
d.ectiouE for tlie Stewartry of Kirkcudbright, in which 
ie was opposed, fi:st, by Gordon of Balmaghie, and 
S»cordly, by the Hon. Montgomery Stewart. Tiiere is a 
^rsoaai bitterness in these lampoons, which did not 
tsiingle with the strains in which the poet recorded the 
tOTitest bdtween Miller and Johnstone. They are printed 
here as matters of poetry, and I feel sure that none will 
(.» displeased, and some will smile.] 

I. 

Whom will you send to London town, 

To Parliament and a' that ? 
Or wha in a' the country round 
The best deserves to fa' that ? 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Thro Galloway and a' that; 
Where is the laird or belted knight 
• That best deserves to fa' that ? 



II. 

Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett,, 

And wha is't never saw that ? 

Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree meets 

And has a doubt of a' that ? 

For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that, 
The independent patriot, 
The honest man, an' a' that. 



Tho' wit and worth in either sex, 
St. Mary's Isle can shaw that ; 
Wi' dukes and lords let Selkirk mix, 
And weel does Selkirk fa' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
The independent commoner 
Shall be the man for a' that. 

IV. 

0at why should we to nobles jouk, 

And it's against the law that ; 
For why, a lord may be a gouk, 
Wi' ribbon, star, a a' a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 
here's Heron yet for a' that I 
A lord may be a lousy loun, 
Wi' ribbon, star, an' a' that. 



A beardless boy coroes o'er the hillB, 

Wi' uncle's purse an' a' that ; 
But we'll hae ane frae 'mang oursels, 
A man we ken, an' a' that. 

For a' that, an' a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that 1 
For we're not to be bought an* sold 
Like naigs^ an' nowt, an' a' thfct 

VI. 

Then let us drink the Stewartry, 

Kerroughtree's laird, an' a' that, 
Our representative to be. 
For weel he's worthy a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that. 
A House of Commons such as he, 
They would be blest that saw that. 



CXLIX. 

THE HERON BALLADS. 
[ballad second.] 

[I« thic ballad the poet gathers together, after th« 
manner of " Fy .' let us a' to the bridal," all the leading 
electors of the Stewartrv, who befriended Heron, ot 
opposed him; and draws their porfi-aits in the colours of 
light or darkness, according to the complexion of their 
politics. He is too severe in most instances, and in soma 
he is venomous. On the Earl of Gallov/ay's family, and 
on the Murrays of Broughton and Caillie, as well as on 
Bush by of Tinwaldowns, he pours his hottest satire. 
But words w^hich are unjust, or undeserved, fall off their 
victims like rain-drops from a wild-duck's wine. The 
Murrays of Broughton and Caillie have long borne, from 
the vulgar, the stigma of treachery to the cause of Prince 
Charles Stewart: from such infamy the family is wholly 
free : the traitor, Murray, was of a race now extinct . 
and while he was betraying the cause in wiiich so much 
noble and gallant blood was shed, Murray of Broughton 
and Caillie was performing the duties of an honourable 
and loyal man: he was, like his great-grandson now, 
representing hie native district in parliament.] 

THE ELECTION. 



Ft, let us a' to Kirkcudbright, 
For there will be bickerin' there ; 

For Murray's' light horse are to muster, 
And 0, how the heroes will swear I 



1 Murray, of Broughton and Caillie. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 191 


An' there will be Murray commander, 


An' there will be Buittle's^ apostle. 


And Goidon' the battle to win; 


Wha's more o' the black than the blue ; 


Like brothers they'll stand by each other, 


An' there will be folk from St. Mary's.' 


Sae knit in alliance an' kin. 


A house o' great merit and note, 




The deil ane but honours them highly,- — 


II. 


The deil ane will gie them his vote I 


An' there will be black-lippit Johnnie,* 




The tongue o' the trump to them a' ; 


VII. 


And he get na hell for his haddin' 


An' there will be wealthy young Richard, 


The deil gets na justice ava' ; 


Dame fortune should hing by the neck; 


And there will Kempleton's birkie, 


For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing, 


A boy no sae black at the bane, 


His merit had won him respect : 


But, as for his fine nabob fortune, 


An' there will be rich brother nabobs. 


"We'll e'en let the subject alane. 


Tho' nabobs, yet men of the first, 




An' there will be Collieston's" whiskers, 


III. 
An' there will be Wigton's new sheriff, 


An' Quintin, o' lads not the worst 


Dame Justice fu' brawlie has sped, 




Che's gotten the heart of a Bushby, 


VIII. 


But, Lord, what's become o' the head? 


An' there will be stamp-office Johnnie,* 


An' there will be Cardoness,'' Esquire, 


Tak' tent how ye purchase a dram ; 


Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes ; 


An' there will be gay Cassencarrie, 


A wight that will weather damnation, 


An' there will be gleg Colonel Tam; 


For the devil the prey will despise. 


An' there will be trusty Kerr ough tree, '* 




Whose honour was ever his law, 


lY. 


If the virtues were pack'd in a parcel, 


An' tkfre will be Douglasses* doughty. 


His worth might be sample for a'. 


Ne-w christ'ning towns far and near ; 




Abjuring their democrat doings, 


IX. 


By kissing the — o' a peer ; 


An' can we ftrget the auld major, 


An' there will be Kenmure^ sae gen'rous. 


Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys, 


"^Vhose honour is proof to the storm. 


Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other, 


To save them from stark reprobation, 


Him only 'tis justice to praise. 


He lent them his name to the firm. 


An' there will be maiden Kilkerran, 




And also Barskimming's gude knight. 


V. 


An' there will be roarin' Birtwhistle, 


But we wfnna mention Redcastle,* 




The body, e'en let him escape! 


Wha luckily roars in the right. 


He'd venture the gallows for siller, 




An' 'twere na the cost o' the rape. 


X. 


An' where is our king's lord lieutenant. 


An' there, frae the Niddisdale borders. 


Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return' 


Will mingle the Maxwells in droves ; 


The billie is gettin' his questions, 


Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, an' Wallt^ 


1: Bay in St. Stephen's the morn. 


That griens for the fishes an' loaves ; 




An' there will be Logan Mac Douall,'* 


VI. 


Sculdudd'ry an' he will be there, 


An' there will be lads o' the gospel, 


An' also the wild Scot of Galloway, 


Muirhead,' wha's as gude as he's true ; 


Sodgerin', gunpowder Blair. 


Gordon of Balmnghie. 


8 The Minister of Buittle. 


« Bushby, of Tinwfild-downs. 


e Earl of Selkirk's family. 


t iVlnxweil, of Card()ne?8. 


10 Oswald, of Aiichuncruive. 


< The Douglasses, of Orchardtown and Castle Doaglaa. 


11 Copland, of Collieston and Blackvi X»d. 


tJordon, afterwards Viscount Keninftre. 


12 John Syme, of the Stamp-office. 


» Laurie, of Redcast e. 


13 Heron, of Kerroughtree. 


Mora'sead, Minister of Urr 


14 Colonel Macdouall, of liOgatt. 



192 THE POETICAL WORKS 


XI. 


Here's an honest conscience 


Then hey the chaste interest o' Broughton, 


Might a prince adorn ; 


An' hey for the blessings 'twill bring ? 


Frae the downs o' Tinwald — 3 


It may send Balmaghie to the Commons, 


So was never worn. 


In Sodom 'twonld make him a king ; 


Buy braw troggin, &o. 


An' hey for the sanctified M — — y, 




Our land who wi' chapels has stor'd ; 


Here's its stuff and lining, 


He founder' d his horse among harlots, 
But gied the auld naig to the Lord. 


Cardoness'^ head ; 
Fine for a sodger 
A' the wale o' lead. 




Buy braw troggin, &o, 
Here's a little wadset 






Buittle's^ scrap o' truth, 




Pawn'd in a gin-shop 


CL. 


Quenching holy drouth. 


THU HERON BALLADS. 


Buy braw troggin^ &o. 


[ballad third.] 


Here's armorial bearings 




Frae the manse o' Urr.' 


[This third and last ballad was written on the contest 




Between Heron and Stewart, which followed close on 


The crest, an auld crab-qpt)i« 


that with Gordon. Heron carried the election, but was 


Rotten at the core. 


unseated by the decision of a Committee of the House 


Buy braw troggin, &e. 


of Commons : a decision which it is said he took so much 




to h«art that it affected his health, and shortened his 
ufe] 


Here is Satan's picture, 


Like a bizzard gled, 


AN EXCELLENT NEW SONO. 


Pouncing poor Redcastle,' 


Tune. — ^^ Buy hroom besoms.''* 


Sprawlin' as a taed. 




Buy braw troggin, &o. 


Wha will buy my troggin, 




Fine election ware ; 


Here's the worth and wigjlom 


Broken trade o' Broughton, 


Collieston^ can boast; 


A' in high repair. 


By a thievish midge 


Buy braw troggin, 


They had been nearly lost. 


Frae the banks o' Dee ; 


Buj braw troggin, &o. 


Wha wants troggin 




Let him come to me. 


Here is Murray's fragments 




0' the ten commands; 


There's a noble Earl's^ 


Gifted by black Jock^ 


Fame and high renown 


To get them aff his hands. 


For an auld sang — 


Buy braw troggin, &o. 


It's thought the gudes were stown. 


Saw ye e'er sic troggin? 


Buy braw troggin, &c. 


If to buy ye're slack, 




Hornie's turnin' chapman. 


Here's the worth o' Broughton* 


He'll buy a' the pack. 


In a needle's ee ; 


Buy braw troggin, 


Herd's a reputation 


Frae the ^anks o' Dee; 


Tint by Balmaghie. 


Wha wants troggin 


Buy braw troggin, &c. 


Let him come to me. 


1 The Earl of Galloway. 


CMorehead, ofUrr. 


a Murray, of Broughton and Caillie. 


7 Laurie, of Redcastle. 


3 Bushby, of Tinwald-downa. 


8 Copland, of Collieston and Blackwood 


4 Maxwell, of Cardoness, 


» John Bushby, of Tinwald-downs. 


The Minister of Bui ttie. 


• 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



1^3 



CLI. 



POEM, 



ASOSBSSBD TO 



MR. MTTCEELL, COLLECTOR OP EXCISE. 

DUMFRIES, 1796. 

[The gentleman to' whom this very modest, and, under 
ihe circumstances, most affecting application for his 
•alary was rrado, filled the office of Collector of Excise 
koi the district, and was of a kind and generous nature: 
Jut few were aware that the poet was sufferings both 
^'om ill-health and poverty.] 

f RiEND of the Poet, tried and leal, 
"Wha, -wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alake, alake, the meikle deil 

Wi' a' his witches 
Are at it, skelpin' jig and reel, 

In my poor pouches ! 

I modestly fu' fain Trad hint it. 
That one pound one, I sairly want it, 
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, 

It would be kind ; 
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hale design. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Te've heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell death was nearly nicket ; 
Grim loon ! he got me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket, 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a share o't, 
And by that life, I'm promised malr o't. 
My hale and weel I'll tak a care o't, 

A tentier way : 
Then fai>3well folly, hide and hair o't, 

For ance and aye I 



13 



CLII. 

TO 

MISS JESSY LEWARS, 

DUMFRIES. 
WITH Johnson's 'musical musbcm.' 

[MisB Jessy Lewars watched over the dechring dayg 
of the poet, with the affectionate reverence of a daiigh' 
ter : for this she has the silent gratitude of all who ad- 
mire the genius of Burns; she has received more, tb« 
thanks or tne poet himself, expressed in verses nof dec- 
lined soon to die.1 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the Poet's prayer ;• 
That fate may in her fairest page, 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name : 
With native worth and spotless fame. 
And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare ; 
All blameless joys on earth we find. 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend, The Bard 
June 26, 1796. 



CLIII. 

POEM ON LIFE, 

ADSSBSSSD TO 

COLONEL DE PEYSTER. 

DUMFRIES, 1796. 

[This is supposed to be the last Poem wntten by th« 
hand, or conceived by the muse of Burns. The perso« 
to whom it is addressed was Colonel of the gentlemeu 
Volunteers of Dum^'iies, in whose ranks Burns was a 
private: he was a Canadian by birth, and prided him- 
self on having defended Detroit, against the raited efforts 
of the French and Americans. He was roiigli and aus- 
tere, and thought the science of war the noblest of all sci 
ences : he affected a taste for literature, and wrote verces 

Mt honoured colonel, deep I feel 

Your interest in the Poet's weal ; 
Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus, pill. 

And potion glasses 

what a canty warld were it, 

Would pain and care and sickness spare it} 

And fortune favour worth and merit, 

As they deserve I 
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ; 

Syne, wha w»d starve '^ 



194 THE POETICAL WORKS 


Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, 


Poor man, the flie, aft fcizzes bye, 


And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; 


And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 


Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker 


Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, 


I've f jund her still, 


And hellish pleasure ; 


Ky wavering like the willow-wicker, 


Already in thy fancy's eye, 


'Tween good and ill. 


Thy sicker treasure < 


Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 


Soon heels-o'er gowdie ! in he gangs, 


W etches, like baudrons by a rattan, 


And like a sheep head on a tangs. 


Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 


Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 


Wi' felon ire ; 


And murd'ring wreslie 


Syne, whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on— 


As, dangling in the wind, he hangs 


He's aff like fire. 


A gibbet's tassel. 


Ah Nick ! ah Nick ! it is na fair. 


But lest you think I am uncivil. 


First shewing us the tempting ware, 


To plague you with this draunting drivel. 


Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, 


Abjuring a' intentions evil. 


To put us daft ; 


I quat my pen : 


Syne, weave, unseen, thy spider snare 


The Lord preserve us frae the dovil, 


0' hell's damn'd waft. 


Amen ! amen ! 


EPITAPHS, EPIGR 


AMS, FRAGMENTS, 


ETC., 


ETC. 


I. 


in. 


ON THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. 


ON A FRIEND. 


[William Burness merited his son's eulogiums: he 


[The name of this friend is neither irentioned no 


jras an example of piety, patience, and formude.] 


alluded to in any of the poet's productions.] 


YB whose cheek the tear of pity stains. 


An honest man here lies at rest 


Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend I 


As e'er God with his image blest ! 


Here lie the loving husband's dear remains. 


The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 


The tender father and the gen'rous friend. 


The friend of age, and guide of youth ; 


The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; 


Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 


The dauntless heart that feared no human 


Few heads with knowledge so inform'd : 


The fiiend of man, to vice alone a foe ; [pride ; 


If there's another world, he lives in Misa ; 


** For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side." 


If there is none, he made the best of thig. 


n. 

ON R. A., ESQ. 


IV. 
FOR GAVIN HAMILTON. 


[These lines allude to the persecution which Hamiltof 


[Rooert Aiken, Esq , to whom " The Cotter's Saturday 


endured for presuming to ride on Sunday, and say 


Hight" is address«id: a kind and generous man.] 


"damn it," in the presence of the mi lister of Mauchlin*. 


Know thou, stranger to the fame 


The poor man weeps— here Gavin shieps, 


Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name! 


Whom canting wretches blam'd : 


(For none that knew him need be told) 


But with such as he, where'er be be, 


A waime^ he-^vt death ne'er made coid. 


May I be sav'd or damn'd I 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



194 



V. 


vin. 


ON WEE JOHNNY. 


ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. 


HIO JACKT WEE JOHNNY. 


[Souter Hood obtained the dis!inction of thisEpiirrani 




by his imnertinent inquiries into what he cailed tiie 
moral delinquencies of Burns.] 


pVee Johnny was John Wilson- printer of tike Kilmar- 


H»ck edition of Burns's Poems : he doubted the success of 




the a. «culation, and the poet punished him in these lines, 


Here souter Hood in death does sleep ;— 


wSKck he printed -jnaware of their meaning.] 


To h— 11, if he's gane thither, 


Whoe'er thou art, reader, know. 


Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, 


That death has murder'd Johnny 1 


He'll hand it weel thegither. 


in' here his body lies fu' low — 




For saul he ne'er had ony. 






IX. 


VI. 


ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 


ON JOHN DOVE, 


[This noisy polemic was a mason of the name of Jam«t 




Humphrey : he astonished Cromek by an eloquent dis 


INNKEEPER, MAUCHLINB. 


sertation on free grace, effectual-calling, and predejtina 


I John Dove kept the Whitefoord Arms in Mauchline : 


tion.] 


lis religion is made to consist of a comparative appre- 


Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : 


•ulion of the liquors he kept.] 


Death, it's my opinion. 


Here lies Johnny Pidgeon ; 


Thou ne'er took such a blethrin' b— ch 


What was his religion ? 


Into thy dark dominion ! 


Wha e'er desires to ken, 




To some other warl' 
Maun follow the carl, 






For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane ! 




Strong ale was ablution — 


X. 


Small beer, persecution. 


ON MISS JEAN SCOTT. 


A dram was memento mori; 




But a full flowing bowl 


[The heroine of these complimentary lines lived 1 


Was the saving his soul. 


Ayr, and cheered the poet with her sweet voice, as we^l 


And port was celestial glory. 


as her sweet looks.] 




Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times,, 




Been Jeany Scott, as thou art. 




The bravest heart on English ground 




Had yielded like a coward 1 


VII. 




ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. 




(Thia laborious and useful wag was the " Dear Smith. 




hcu 8!5est pawkie thief," of one of the poet's finest 




^ijtles : he died in the West Indies.] 


XI. 


Lament him, Mauchline husbands a', 
He aften did assist ye ; 


ON A HENPECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE. 


For had ye staid whole weeks awa, 


[Though satisfied with the severe satire of thej« lint* 


Your wives they ne'er had missed ye. 


the poet made a second attempt.] 


Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press 


As father Adam first was fool'd, 


To school in bands thegither. 


k. case that's still too common, 


tread ye lightly on his grass,— 


Here lies a man a woman rul'd, 


Perhaps he was your father. 


The devil rul'd the woman. 



196 



THE POETICAL TV JRKS 



xn. 

ON THE SAME. 

[The second attempt did not in Burns's fancy exhaust 

(his fruitful subject : he tried his hand again.] 

Death, hadst thou but spared his life, 

Whom we this day lament, 
We freely wad exchang'd the wife, 

And a' been weel content ! 

Er'n as he is, cauld in his graff, 

The swap we yet will do't ; 
Take thou the carlin's carcase aff, 

Thou'se get the soul to boot. 



xni. 

ON THE SAME. 

[In these lines he bade farewell to this sordid dame, 
who lived, it is said, in Netherplace, near Mauchline.] 

One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell, 
When depriv'd of her husband she loved so well, 
In respect for the love and affection he'd show'd 

her, 
She reduc'd him to dust and she drank up the 

powder. 
But Queen Netherplace, of a diff'rent com- 
plexion, 
When call'd on to order the fun'ral direction, 
Would have eat her dear lord, on a slender pre- 
tence, 
JJot to show her respect, but to save the ex- 
pense. 



XIV. 
THE HIGHLAND WELCOME. 

(BuT'fl took farewell of the hospitalities of the SnJdt- 
i«h Highlands in these happy lines.] 

When Death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 

A time that surely shall come; 
Tn Heaven itself I'll ask no more 

Than just a Highland welcome. 



XV. 



ON WILLIAM SMELLIE. 

[Smellie, author of the Philosophy of Hictorv, a Sim 
gular person, of ready wit, and negligent in nothing taTf 
his dress.] 

Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came. 
The old cock'd hat, the gray surtout, the same; 
His bristling beard just rising in its mighty 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving 
night : 

His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild starirg, thatch*4 
A head for thought profound and cJear, un* 

match'd : 
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



XVI. 

VERSES 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THK INN AT CABBOIf . 

[These lines were written on receiving what the po«t 
considered an uncivil refusal to look at the works of th« 
celebrated Carron foundry.] 

We came na here to view your warks 

In hopes to be mair wise. 
But only, lest we gang to hell, 

It may be nae surprise : 

For whan we tirl'd at your door, 
Your porter dought na hear us ; 

Sae may, shou'd we to hell's yetts com« 
Your billy Satan sair us ! 



XVII. 

THE BOOKWORMS. 

[Burns wrote this reproof in a ShakspeatP which afl 
found splendidly bound and gilt, but unreac rnd woiii> 
eaten, in a noble person's library.] 

Through and through the inspir'd leaves. 
Ye maggots, make your windings ; 

But oh ! respect his lordship's taste, 
And spar« his golden bindings. 



OF .ROBERT BURNS 



V.r 



XVIII. 
LINES ON STIRLING. 

On visiting Stirling, Burns was stung at beholding 
tiothing but desolation in the palaces of our princes and 
Bur lialls of legislation, and vented his indignation in 
these unloyal lines : some one has said that they were 
written by his companion, Nicol, but this wants con- 
trmation.] 

Here Stuarts once in glory reign'd, 
And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd ; 
But now unroof d their palace stands, 
. Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands ; 
The injured Stuart line is gone, 
A race outlandish fills their throne ; 
An idiot race, to honour lost ; 
Who know them best despise them most. 



XIX. 

THE REPROOF. 

[The imprudence of making the lines written at Stir- 
liirg public was hinted to Burns by a friend ; he said, " Oh, 
but I mean to reprove myself for it," which he did in 
these words.] 

Rash mortal, and slanderous Poet, thy name 
Shall no longer appear in the records of fame ; 
Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes 

like the Bible, 
Bays the more 'tis a truth, Sir, the more 'tis a 

Ubel? 



XX. 

THE REPLY. 



[The minister of Gladsmuir wrote a censure on the 
itirling lines, intimating, as a priest, that Burns's race 
was nigh run, and as a prophet, that oblivion awaited 
tiB muse. Tlie poef replied to the expostulation.] 

Like Esop's lion, Burns says, sore I feel 
All others' scorn — but damn that ass's heel. 



XXI. 
LINES 



ITKITTBW UNDEE THE PICTCRE OF THK CELEBRATED 
MISR BURNS. 

[The Miss Burns of these lines wag well known in 
lk7M days to the bucks of the Scottish metropolis: there 
■ at'-U a letter by the p )et, claiming from the mafcis- 



trates of Edinburgh a liberal interpret;) lion of the law* 
social morality, in behalf of his fair namesake.] 

Cease, ye prudes, your envious railings, 
Lovely Bui-ns has charms — confess : 

True it is, she had one failing — 
Had a woman ever less ? 



XXII. 

EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSl )N, 

[1 hese portraits are strongly coloured with the las 
tialilies of the poet: Dundas had offended his p de 
Erekme had pieased his vanity ; and as he felt he spc re 

LORD ADVOCATE. 

He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist. 

He quoted and he hinted, 
'Till in a declamation-mist 

His argument he tint it : 
He gaped for't, he grap'd for't, 

He fand it was awa, man ; 
But what his common sense came short 

He eked out wi' law, man. 

MK. erskine. 
Collected Harry stood awee. 

Then open'd out his arm, man: 
His lordship sat wi' rueful e'e. 

And ey'd the gathering storm, man; 
Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail. 

Or torrents owre a linn, man ; 
The Bench sae wise lift up their eyes, 

Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man. 



XXIII. 
THE HENPECKED HUSBAND. 

[A lady who expressed herself with incivility alesu 
her husband's potation^ with Burns, vas rewarded J>| 
these sharp lines.] 

Cur&'d be the man, the poorest wretch in .ife, 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife ! 
Who has no will but by her high permission; 
Who has not sixpence but in- her possession; 
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ; 
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell \ 
Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart , 
i I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 
I I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b — b 



198 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



XXIV. 

WRITTEN AT INVERARY. 

[Nefflected at tne inn of Inverary, on account of the 
oresence of some northern chiefs, and overlooked by hie 
Grace of Argyll, the poet let loose his wrath and his 
rhyme : tradition speaks of a pursuit which took place 
on the part of the Campbell, when he was told of his 
mistake, and of a resolution not to be soothed on the 
part of the bard .J 

Whoe'er he be that sojourns here, 

I pity much his cjise, 
Unless he's come to wait upon 

The Lord their God, his Grace. 

There's naething here but Highland pride 
And Highland cauld and hunger ; 

If Providence has sent me here, 
'Twas surely in his anger. 



XXV. 



ON ELPHINSTON'S TRANSLATIONS 



MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS. 

[Burns thuB relates the origin of this sally : — 
" Stopping at a merchant's shop in Edinburgh, a 
friend of mine one day put Elphinston's Translation of 
Martial into my hand, and desired my opinion of it. I 
9i«ked permission to write my opinion on a blank leaf of 
the book ; which being granted, I wrote this epigram.] 

THOU, whom poesy abhors, 
Whom prose has turned out of doors, 
Heard'st thou that groan ? proceed no further ; 
'Tw&8 laurell'd Martial roaring murther! 



XXVI. 
INSCRIPTION, 

ON THE HEADSTONE OF FEROUSSON. 

♦Some social friends, whose good feelings were better 
dMn their taste, have ornamented with supplemental 
n->n work the headstone which Burns erected, with this 
mwcription to the memory of his brother bard, Fer- 
fuagoii.' 

Here lies 
RoBEKT Fergcsson, Poet. 
Born, September 5, 1751; 
Died, Oct. 15, 1774. 

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 
'* No storied urn nor animated bust ;'* 

th?9 simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 



XXVII. 

ON A SCHOOLMASTER, 

[The Willie Michie of this epigram was, it ia said 
schoolmaster of the parish of Cleish, in Fiieshire : M 
met Burns during his first visit to Edinburgh. | 

Here lie Willie Michie's banes ; 

0, Satan ! when ye tak' him, 
Gi' him the schoolin' o' your weans. 

For clever de'ils he'll mak' them. 



XXVIIl. 
A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 

[This was an extempore grace, pronounced by tht 
poet at a dinner-table, in Dumfries : he was ever readj 
to contribute the small change of rhyme, for either tb§ 
use or amusement of a company.] 

Thou, who kindly dost provide 

For every creature's want 1 
We bless thee, God of Nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent : 
And if it please thee, Heavenly Guide, 

May never worse be sent ; 
But, whether granted or denied. 

Lord bless us with content ! 

Amen. 



XXIX. 

A GRACE BEFORE MEAT. 

[Pronounced, tradition says, at the table of lllia Riil 
del, of Woodleigh-Park.] 

Thou in whom we live and move^ 

Who mad'st the sea and shore. 
Thy goodness constantly we prove, 

And grateful would adore. 
And if it please thee, Power above, 

Still grant us with such store. 
The friend we trust, the fair we love, 

And we desire no more. 



XXX. 

ON WAT. 



[The name of the object of tliis fierce epigram migiui 
be found, but in gratifying curiosity, some pain wcu^d bt 
inflicted.] 

Sic a reptile was Wat, 
Sic a miscreant slave. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



19S 



That the very ^vorins damn'd him 
When laid in his grave. 

*'In his flesh there's a famine," 
A starv'd reptile cries ; 

" An' his heart is rank poison,'' 
Another replies. 



XXXI. 

ON CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE. 

[This was <» festive sally: it is said that Grose, who 
was very fat t-iough he joined in the laugh, did not re- 
Jish it.] 

The devil got notice that Grose was a-dying. 
Bo whip ! at the summons, old Satan came 

flying ; 
But when he approach'd where poor Francis lay 

moaning, 
And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groan- 

ing, 
Astonish'd! confounded! cry'd Satan, "By 

~~> 
I'll want him, ere I take such a damnable load I" 



xxxn. 

IMPROMPTU, 
TO MISS AINSLIE. 

[These lines were occasioned by a sermon on sin, to 
<\hich the poet and Miss Ainslie of Berrywell had 
istened, during his visit to the border.] 

Fair maid, you need not take the hint, 

Nor idle texts pursue : — 
•Twas guilty sinners that he meant, 

Not angels such as you ! 



xxxin. 

THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON. 

(One rough, cold day, Bums listened to a sermon, bo 
ittle to his liking, in tlie kirk of Lamingtcm, in Clydes- 
dale, that he left this protest on the seat where he sat.] 

As cauld a wind as ever blew. 
As caulder kirk, and in't but few; 
As cauld a minister's e'er spak, 
Ye'ae a' be het ere I come back. 



XXXIV. 

THE LEAGUE AND COVENANT. 

[In answer to a gentleir.an, who cahed the solfcU 
League and Covenant ridiculous and fanatical.] 

The solemn League and Covenant 

Cost Scotland blood — cost Scotland teari , 

But it sealed freedom's sacred cause — 
If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers. 



XXXV. 

WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS, 

IN THE INN AT MOFFAT. 

[A friend asked the poet why God made Miss Daviei 
so little, and a lady who was with her, so large : befor« 
the ladies, who had just passed the window, were out 
of sight, the following answer was recorded on a pan« 
ot glass.] 

Ask why God made the gem so small. 
And why so huge the granite ? 

Because God meant mankind should set 
The higher value on it. 



XXXVI. 

SPOKEN, 

OK BKIIfO APPOINTED TO THK EXCISK. 

[Burns took no pleasure in the name of gauger : i 
situation was unworthy of him, and he seldom hesttateid 
to say so.] 

Searching auld wives' barrels, 

Och — hon ! the day ! 
That clarty barm shouht atain my laurels ; 

But — what'll ye say 1 
These movin' things ca'd wives and weans 
Wad move the very hearts o' stanes I 



XXXVII. 

LINES ON MRS. KEMBLE. 

[The poet wrote these lines in Mrs. Riddel's box U th« 
Dumfries Theatre, in the winter of 1794 : he was macli 
moved by Mrs. Keinble's noble and pathetic acting.] 

Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief 

Of Moses and his rod ; 
At Yarico's sweet notes of grief 

The rock with tears had fliow'cL 



XXXVIII. 

TO MR. SYME. 

[JtAo Syme, of Ryedale, a rhymer, a wit, and agentle- 
nRan of education and intelligence, was, wliile Burns 
reside . in D'lTOtries, his ciiief companion : he was bred 
tz) the .dw 

^0 more of your guests, be they titled or not, 
And cook'ry the first in the nation ; 

ffho is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 
Is proof to all other temptation. 



XXXIX. 

TO MR. SYME. 

WITH A PRESENT OP A DOZEN OF PORTER. 

[The tavern where these lines were written was kept 
by a wandering mortal of the name of Smith; who, 
having visited in some capacity or other the Holy Land, 
put on his sign, " John Smith, from Jerusalem." He 
was commonly known by the name of Jerusalem John.] 

0, HAD the malt tiiy strength of mind. 
Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 

'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for Syme were fit. 
'erumlem Tavern, Dumfries. 



XL. 
A GRACE. 

[This Grace was spoken at the table of Ryedale, where 
to the best cookery was added the richest wine, as well 
git the rarest wit : Hyslop was a distiller,] 

Lord, we thank and thee adore, 
For temp'ral gifts we little merit ; 

At present we will ask no more, 
Let William Hyslop give the spirit. 



XLI. 

INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET. 

rWritten on a dinner-goblet by the hand of Burns. 
Byrne, ejcasperated at having his set of crystal defaced, 
Uiraw the goblet under the gra^p : it was taken up by his 
clerk, and it is still preserved as a curiosity.] 

There's death in the cup — sae beware ! 

Nay, more — there is danger in touching ; 
But wha can avoid the fell snare ? 

The man and his wine's sae bewitching I 



XLII. 

THE INVITATION. 

[Burns had a happy knack in acknowledging Civi.itiiM 
these lines were written with a pencil on the paper 14 
which Mrs. Hyslop, of Lochruttor- «> iclosed aainvitaCini 
to dinner.] 

The Bang's most humble servant I, 
Can scarcely spare a minute ; 

But I am yours at dinner-time. 
Or else the devil's in it. 



XLIII. 

THE CREED OF POVERTY. 

[When the commissioners of Excise told Bums (l»al 
he was to act, and not to think ; he took out his pencil 
and wrote " The Creed of Poverty."] 

In politics if thou would' st mix. 

And mean thy fortunes be ; 
Bear this in mind — be deaf and blind ; 

Let great folks hear and see. 



XLIV. 
WRITTEN IN A LADY'S POCKET-BOOK. 

[That Burns loved liberty and sympathized with thost 
who were warring in its cause, these lines, and hundred! 
more, sufficienly testify.,, 

Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live 
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give, 
Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air, 
Till slave and despot be but things which were. 



XLV. 
THE PARSON'S LOOKS. 

[Some sarcastic person said, in Burns's hearing, that 
there was falsehood in the Reverend Dr. Burnside-i 
ooks : the poet mused for a moment, and replied in iinei 
whici' have less of truth than pomt.J 

That there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny ; 
They say their master is a knave— 

And sure they do not lie. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



201 



XLVI. 

THE TOAD-EATER. 

[This reproof was administered extempore to one of 
Bie gupsts at the table of Maxwell, of Terraughty, whose 
Oriole talk was of Dukes with whom he had dined, and 
ifejL.lt with whom he had supped.] 

\^HA.T of earls with whom you have supt, 
And of dukes that you dined with yestreen ? 

(^rd ! a louse, Sir, is still but a louse, 
Though it crawl on the curl of a queen. 



XLVII. 

OK ROBERT RIDDEL. 

[J copied these lines from a pane of glass in the Friarg- 
Carse Hern'itage, on which they had been traced with 
the diamond of Burns.] 

To Riddel, much-lamented man, 

This ivied cot was dear ; 
Reader, dost value matchless worth ? 

This ivied cot revere. 



XLvni. 

THE TOAST. 



IBurns being called on for a song, by his brother volun- 
leers, on a festive occasion, gave the following Toast.] 

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast — 

Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that 
we lost ! — 

That we lost, did I say ? nay, by Heav'n, that 
we found ; 

For their fame it shall last while the world goea 
round. 

The itxt in succession, I'll give you — the King ! 

Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he 
swing ; 

.^nd acre's the grand fabric, our free Constitu- 
tion, 

As built on the base of the great Revolution; 

And longer with politics not to be era- im'd, 

Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Ty anny damn'd ; 

And who would to Liberty e cr prove disloyal, 

May bip son be a hangman, and he his first 
«ral. 



XLIX. 
ON A PERSON NICKNAMED 

THE MARQUIS. 

[.n a moment when vanity prevailed against prudence, 
this person, who kept a respectable public-house in Dam 
fries, desired Burns to write his epitaph.] 

Heee lies a mock Marquis, whose titles wer« 

shamm'd ; 
If ever he rise, it will be to be damn'd. 



L. 

LINES 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW. 

[Burns traced these words with a diamord, on th« 
window of the King's Arms Tavern, Dumfries, as a 
reply, or reproof, to one who had been witty on excise 
men.] 

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneer- 
ing 

'Gainst poor Excisemen ? give the cause a hear- 
ing; 

What are you, landlords' rent-rolls? teasing 
ledgers : 

What premiers — what ? even monarchs' mighty 
gangers : 

Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly wise 
men? 

What are they, pray, but spiritual Excisemen 1 



LI. 



LINES 

WRITTRN ON A WINDOW OF THK GLOBE TAVKHN, 
DUMFRIKS. 

[The Globe Tavern was Burns's favourite ' Hov i"," 
as he called it. It had other attracti<m/j than goo*' 
liquor; there lived "Anna, with the golden locks."] 

The graybeard, old Wisdom, may boast of hi| 

treasures, 
Give me with gay Folly to live ; 
I grant him his calm-blooded, time- settled pleac 

sures. 



But Folly has raptures to give. 



202 THE POETICAL WOKKS 


LII. 


LVI. 


THE SELKIRK GRACE. 


ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, 


[Oi a visit to St. Mary's Isle, Burns was requested jy 
tho noble owner to say grace to dinner ; he obeyed in 
these lines, now known in Galloway by the name of''*' The 
Baliirk Grace."] 

SoMSJ hae meat and canna eat, 
And some wad eat that want it ; 

But we hae meat and we can eat, 
And sae the Lord be thanket. 


NAMED ECHO 

[When visiting with Syme at Kenmce C&st.e Hum 
wrote this Epitaph, rather reluctantly, it >s said, at th« 
request of the lady of the house, in honour of her lay 
dog.] 

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore ; 
Now half extinct your powers of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ye jarring, screeching things around, 
Scream your discordant joys ; 

Now half your din of tuneless sound 
With Echo silent lies. 


LIII. 
TO DR. MAXWELL, 


ON JESSIE STAIG'S RECOVERY. 




[Maxwell was a skilful physician ; and Jessie Staig, the 
provost's eldest daughter, was a young lady of great 
Deauty : she died early.] 




* 


Maxwell, if merit here you crave 

That merit I deny, 
You save fair Jessie from the grave — 

An angel could not die. 


LVII. 

ON A NOTED COXCOMB 

[Neither Ayr, Edinburgh, nor Dumfrieis have contested 
the honour of producing the person on whom these line^ 
were written: — coxcombs are the growth of all di«- 
tricts.] 




. LIV. 
EPITAPH. 


Light lay the earth on Willy's breast 

His chicken-heart so tender ; 
But build a castle on his head, 


(These lines were traced by the hand of Burns on a 
foblei belonging to Gabriel Richardson, brewer, in 
Dbrnfries : it is carefully preserved in the family.] 

Herb brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct, 

And empty all his barrels : 
He's blest— if, as he brew'd, he drinks 

In upright virtuous morals. 


His skull will prop it under. 


LVIII. 

ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OP 




LORD GALLOWAY. 

[This, and the three succeeding Epigrams, are ha«tj 
squibs thrown amid the tumult of a ccmrested election, 
and must not be taken as the hxed and delibemte senti« 
ments of the poet, regarding an ancient and noble hous* ] 


EPITAPH 


ON WILLIAM NICOL. 

(^Nico. was a •;holar, of ready and rougTi wit, who 
•ived a joke and a gill.] 

Ye maggots, feast on Nicol's brain. 
For few sic feasts ye've gotten ; 

And fix your claws in Nicol's heart, 
For deil a bit o't's rotten. 


What dost thou in that mansion fair ?— 

Flit, Galloway, and find 
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, 

'i !ie picture of thy mind I 





OF ROBERT BURNS. 203 


LIX. 


attorneys, loved to handle his character with unspariol 




severity.] 


ON THE SAME. 






Here lies John Bushby, honest maul 


Sc Stewart art thou, Galloway, 


Cheat him, Devil, gin ye can. 


The Stewarts all were brave ; 




Besides, the Stewarts were but fools. 
Not one of them & knave. 








LXIV. 


LX. 


THE TRUE LOYAL NATIVES, 


ON THE SAME. 


[At a dinner-party, where politics rat high, hncN 




signed by men who called themselves the true loya. 


Bright ran thy line, Galloway, 


natives of Dumfries, were handed to Burns : he took 8 


Thro' many a far-fam d sire ! 


pencil, and at once wrote this reply.] 


So ran the far-fam'd Roman way, 
So ended in a mire. 


Ye true *' Loyal Natives," attend to my song, 
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long ;, 




From envy or hatred your corps is exempt, 
But where is your shield from the darts of coi. 




LXI. 


tempt ? 


TO THE SAME, 

W THS AUTHOR BEING THRBATENBD WITH HII 






EESENTMENT. 




Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway, 


LXV. 


In quifet let me live : 




I ask no kindness at thy hand, 


ON A SUICIDE. 


For thou hast none to grvo. 


[Burns was observed by my friend, Dr. Copland Hu 




cnison, to fix, one morning, a bit of paper on the grav« 




of a person who had committed suicide : on the papei 
these lines were pencilled.] 




Lxn. 


Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell. 


ON A COUNTRY LAIRD. 


Planted by Satan's dibble- 




Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himsei 


,< T. Maxwell, of Cardoness, afterwards Sir David, 


%y Bed himseif to the rliyming wrath of burns, by hii 


To save the Lord the trouble. 


* tf^ .rtty IB the contested elections of Heron.] 




Bless Jesus Christ, Cardoness, 
- With grateful lifted eyes. 






Who said that not the soul alone 




But body too, must rise : 


LXVI. , 


For had he said, "the soul alone 




From death I will deliver ;" 


EXTEMPORE 


Alas ! alas ! Cardoness, 


PINNED ON A lady's COACH. 


Then thou hadst slept for ever. 






["Printed," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "frrm i «opy 




in Burns's handwriting," a slight alteration tn the laai 
line is made from an oral version.] 




LXIII. 


If you rattle along like your mistress's timgue, 




Your Bpeed will outrival the dart : 


ON JOHN BUSHBY. 


But, a fly for your load, you'll break down of 


rflarns in his harbhest lampoons, always admitted ihm 


the road 


^JtntB of Bushby : the peasamrj , who hate all clevt»» 


If your stuff has the rot, like her heart. 



204 THE POETICAL WORKS 


LXVII. 


"give me that goblet, and I shall prepare you fo* tk" 




worst." He traced these lines with his diamond, dl 


LINES 


said, " That will be a companion to ' The Toast.' » 


TO JOHN RANKINE. 


Sat, sages, what's the charm on earth 


f These lines were said to have been written by the 


Can turn Death's dart aside ? 


poet to Rankine, of Adamhill, with orders to forward 


It is not purity and worth. 


tbem when he died.] 


Else Jessy had not died. 

R. B. 


He who of Rankine sang lies stiff and dead, 


And a green grassy hillock hides his head ; 
Alas I alas! a devilish change indeed. 




LXXI. 




LXYlll. 


ON THK 




RECOVERY OF JESSY LEWARS 


JESSY LEWARS. 






[A little repose brought health to the young lady. 


(Written on tlie blank side of a list of wild beasts, exhi- 


" I knew you would not die," observed the poet, with « 


biting in Dumfries. " Now," said the poet, who was 


smile : " there is a poetic reason for your recovery :" h« 


Cien very ill, " it is fit to be presented to a lady.''] 


wrote, and with a feeble hand, the following lines.] 


Talk not to me of savages 


But rarely seen since Nature's birth. 


From Afric's burning sun, 


The natives of the sky ; 


No savage e'er could rend my heart 


Yet still one seraph's left on earth, 


As, Jessy, thou hast done. 


For Jessy did not die. 

R. B. 


But Jessy's lovely hand in mine, 


A mutual faith to plight, 
Not even to view the heavenly choir 






Would be so blest a sight. 






LXXli. 

TAM, THE CHAPMAN. 




LXIX. 


[Tarn, the chapman, is said by the late William Cob- 


THE TOAST. 


bett, who knew him, to have been a Thomas Kennedy, a 




native of Ayrshire, agent to a mercantile house in the 


[One day, when Burns was ill and seemed in slumber, 


west of Scotland. Sir Harris Nicolas confounds him 


he observed Jessy Lewars moving about the house with 


with the Kennedy to whom Burns addressed several let- 


B. Jight step lest she should disturb him. He took a 


ters and verses, which 1 printed in my edition of the poet 


crystal goblet containing wine-and-water for moistening 


in 1834 : it is perhaps enough to say that the name of the 


his lips, wrote these words upon it with a diamond, and 


one was Thomas and the name of the other John.] 


^reeeated it to her. 






As Tam the Chapman on a day, 


Fill me with the rosy wine, 


Wi' Death forgather'd by the way. 


Call a toast — a toast divine ; 


Weel pleas'd he greets a wight so famous. 


Give the Port's darling flame, 


And Death was nae less pleas'd wi' Ihomas, 


Lovely Jessy be the name ; 


Wha cheerfully lays down the pack. 


Then thou mayest freely boast. 


And there blaws up a hearty crack ; 


Thou hast given a peerless toast. 


His social, friendly, honest heart. 




Sae tickled Death they could na part: 
Sae after viewing knives and garters, 




LXX. 


Death takes him hame to gie him quartern 


ON MISS JESSY LEWARS. . 

[The constancy of her attendance on the poet's sick- 




I 


fted and anxiety of mind 'wrought a slight illness upon 




Iwey Lewars. " You must not die yet," said the poet: 





OF KOBERT BURNS. 204 


LXXIII. 


It's no I like to sit an' swallow, 




Then like a swine to puke and wallow, 


[These lines sesm to owe their origin to the precept of 
Mirkle. 


But gie me just a true good fallow. 


. " The present moment is our ain, 


Wi' right ingine. 


The next we never saw."] 


And spunkie ance to make us mellow. 




And then we'll shine. 


Here's a bottle and an honest friend! 




What wad you wish for mair, man? 


Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk, 


Wha kens before his life ma.^ end, 


Wha rate the wearer by the cloak, 


What his share may be o' care, man ? 


An' sklent on poverty their ^)oke 


Then catch the moments as they fly, 


Wi' bitter sneer. 


And use them as ye ought, man ! 


Wi' you nae friendship I will troke. 


• Believe me, happiness is shy, 


Nor cheap nor dear 


And comes not ay when sought,' man. 






But if, as I'm informed weel, 




Ye hate as ill's the very deil 




The flinty heart that canna feel — 


Lxxrv. 


Come, Sir, here's tae yon ( 


[The sentiment which these lines express, was one 


Hae, there's my haun, I wiss you weel, 


familiar to Burns, in the early, as well as concluding 


And gude be wi' you. 


days of his life.] 


Robert Burnesi 


f HOUGH fickle Fortune has deceived me, 


Mossgiel, 3 March, 1786, 


She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill ; 




Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me, 
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still. — 






I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able, 


LXXVI. 


But if success I must never find. 




Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome. 


TO JOHN KENNEDY. 


I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind. 


Farewell, dear friend ! may guid luck hit yoi^ 




And 'mang her favourites admit you ! 
If e'er Detraction shore to smit you, 






May nane believe him ! 


LXXV. 


And ony deil that thinks to get you, 


TO JOHN KENNEDY. 


Good Lord deceive nim 1 
R. B. 


[The John Kennedy to whom these verses and the huc- 


Kilmarnock, August, 1786 


ceecUng lines were addressed, lived, in 1796, at Dumfries- 




kou&e, and his taste was so much esteemed by the poet, 




Hiat he submitted his " Cotter's Saturday Night" and the 




"Mountain Daisy" to his judgment: he seems to have 
keen of a social disposition.] 






Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse 


Lxxvn. 


E'er bring you in by Mauchline Cross, 


L — d, man, there's lasses there wad force 


[Cromek found these characteristie lines anjc r.)f u 




poet's papers.] 


A hermit's fancy, 




And down the gate in faith they're worse 


There's naethin like the honesk nappy J 


And mair unchancy. 


Whaur'll ye e'er see men sae nappy. 




Or women, sonsie, saft an' sappy. 


But as I'm sayin', please step to Dow's, 


'Tween morn an' n.Orn 


A.nd taste sic gear as Johnnie brews. 


As them wha like to taste the drappie 


Till some bit callan bring me news 


In glass or horn ? 


That ye are there, 




And if we dinna hae a bouze 


I've seen me daezt upon a time ; 


I'se ne'er drink mair 


I scarce could wink or eee a stjme ; 



206 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Just ae haof muchkin does me prime, 
Ought less is little, 

Then back X rattle on the rhyme, 

As gleg's a whittle. 



Lxxvni. 

ON THE BLANK LEAF 
OF A 

WORK BY HANNAH MORE. 

PRESENTED BY MRS. C . 

Thou flattering work of friendship kind, 
Still may thy pages call to mind 

The dear, the beauteous donor ; 
Though sweetly female every part, 
Y%t such a head, and more the heart. 

Does both the sexes honour. 
She showed her taste refined and just, 

When she selected thee. 
Yet deviating, own I must, 
For so approving me ! 

But kind still, I'll mind still 

The giver in the gift ; 
I'll bless her, and wiss her 
A Friend above the Lift. 
Mossgielj Aprils 1786. 



LXXIX. 

TO THE MEN AN© BRETHREN 
or THB 

MASONIC LODGE AT TARBOLTON 

H"aniN your dear mansion may wayward con- 
tention, 
Or withering envy ne'er enter ; 
May jieerecy round be the mystical bound, 
And brotherly love be the centre. 
Edinburgh, 23 Augmt, 1787. 



LXXX. 
IMPROMPTU 

[The tuTiMer on wb-.ch these verses are inccrltied w 
I the diamood of Burns, found its way ir the bavdi o( 8a 
I Walter A,otc, and its now aTuoag the tj e«uiur«^ of Abb .>*■ 
ford.] 

You're welcome, Willie Stewart, 
' ou'rs welcome, Willie Stewart ; 
rheie's ne'er a flower that blooms in May^ 
That's half sae welcome's thou art. 



Oome bumpers high, express your joy, 
The bowl we maun renew it ; 

The tappit-hen, gae bring her ben. 
To welcome Willie Stewart. 



My foes be Strang, and friends be slack, 

Ilk action may he rue it, 
May woman on him turn her back. 

That wrongs thee, Willie Stewart. 



LXXXI. 

PRAYER FOR ADAM ARMOUR. 

[The origin of this prayer is curious. In 1785, th« 
maid-servant of an innkeeper at Mauchline, having been 
caught in what old ballad-makers delicately cull " tha 
deed of shame," Adam Armour, the brother of the poet's 
bonnie Jean, with one or two more of his comrades, exe- 
cuted a rustic act of justice upon her, by parading ner 
perforce through the village, placed on a rough, un- 
pruned piece of wood : an unpleasant ceremony, vulgarly 
called " Riding the Stang." This was resnnted by 
Geordie and Nanse, the girl's master and mistress : law 
was resorted to, and as Adam had to hide till the matter 
was settled, he durst not venture home till late on the 
Saturday nights. In one of these home-cnmings he met 
Burns, who laughed when he heard the story, and B*id, 
'* You have need of some one to pray for you." '• No 
one can do that better than yourself," was the reply, an<3 
this humorous intercession was made on the instant, and, 
as it is said, " clean off loof." Fron> Adam Armour I 
obtained the verses, and when he wrote therj out, hf 
told the story in which the prayer originated.] 

Lord, pity me, for I am little. 
An elf of mischief and of mettle. 
That can like ony wabster's shuttle. 

Jink there or here, 
Though scarce as lang's a gude kale-<v/iittle, 

I'm uncc queer. 




HANDSOME NELL. 



OF ROBERT BURISS 



201 



Lord pity now our waefu* case, 

For Geordie's Jurr we're in disgrace, 

Because we stang'd her through the place, 

'Mang hundreds laughin', 
For which we daurna show our face 

Within the clachan. 

Ani now we're dern'd in glens and hallows, 
And hunted as was William Wallace, 
B^ constables, those blackguard fellows, 

And bailies baith, 
•^ Lord, preserve us frae the gallows ! 

That cursed death. 

Auld, grim, black-bearded Geordie's sel', 
shake him ewre the mouth o' hell, 
And Ir t him hing and roar and yell, 

Wi' hideous din. 
And if ho oflFers to rebel 

Just heave him in. 



When Death comes in wl' glimmering blink. 
And tips auld drunken Nanse the wink' 
Gaur Satan gie her a — e a clink 

Behint his yett, 
And fill her up wi' brimstone drink, 

Red reeking het ! 

There's Jockie and the hav'rel Jenny, 
Some devil seize them in a hurry. 
And waft them in th' infernal wherry, 

Straught through the l&\tb. 
And gie their hides a noble curry, 

Wi' oil of aik. 

As for the lass, lascivious body. 

She's had mischief enough already, 

Weel stang'd by market, mill, and smiddie, 

She's suffer'd sair ; 
But may she wintle in a widdie. 

If she wh-re mair. 



SONGS AND BALLADS. 



HANDSOME NELL. 

Tune. — "/am a man unmarried." 

[*' This composition," says Burns in his " Common- 
p..4ce Book," "was the first of my performances, and 
done at an early period in life, when my heart glowed 
with honest, warm simplicity ; unacquainted and uncor- 
nipted with the ways of a wicked world. The subject 
»' .c was a young girl who really deserved all the praises 
1 lave bestowed on her,"] 

I. 
C 05 JE 1 -Dv'd a bonnie lass, 

Ay, at^ I love her still ; 
And whilst that honour warms my breast, 

I'll lore my handsome Nell. 



II. 



As boHnie lasses I hae seen. 
And mony full as braw ; 

But for a modest gracefu* mien 
The like I never saw. 

III. 

A bonnie lass, 1 will coniesB, 
Tf» pleasant to the e'e. 



But without some better qualities 
She's no a lass for me. 



But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet, 

And what is best of a*. 
Her reputation is complete. 

And fair without a flaw. 

V. 

She dresses ay sae clean and neat. 

Both decent and genteel : 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ^ny dress look weel. 

VI. 

A gaudy dress and gentle lir 
May slightly touch the heart; 

But it's innocence and modesty 
That polishes the dart. 

VII. 

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 
*Tis this enchants my soul ; 

For absolutely in my breast 
She reigns without jontrol 



208 THE POETICAL WORKS 


n. 


IV. 


LUCKLESS FORTUNE. 


TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAT. 


[These lines, as Burns infoTms us, were written to a 


Tnne—'' Invercald's Reel" 


»une of Ills own composing, consisting of three parts, 
tnd Die words were the echo of the air.] 


[The Tibbie who " spak na, but gaed by like stoure," 




was, it is said, the daughter of a man who wae iuird nt 


RAGING fortune's withering blast 


three acres of peatmoss, and thought it became h»i M 


Has laid my leaf full low, ! 


put on airs in consequense.] 


raging fortune's withering blast 


CHORUS. 


Has laid my leaf full low, I 


Tibbie, I hae seen the day, 


My stem was fair, my bud was green, 


Ye wad na been sae shy; 


My blossom sweet did blow, ; 


For lack o' gear ye lightly me, 


The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild, 


But, trowth, I care na by. 


And made my branches grow, 0. 




But luckless fortune's northern storms 


1. 


Laid a' my blossoms low, ; 


Yestreen I met you on the moor, 


But luckless fortune's northern ^torms 


Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure { 


Laid a' ray M^ssoms low, 


Ye geek at me because I'm poor. 


J ■ ' J ^ 


But fient a hair care I. 

II. 

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think. 






Because ye hae the name o' clink, 


III. 


That ye can please me at a wink. 




Whene'er ye like to try. 


I DREAM'D I LAY. 


s 


[These melancholy verses wore written when the poet 


III. 
But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 


wras some seventeen years old : his early days were typi- 




eal of his latter.] 


Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean. 




Wha follows ony saucy q^uean. 


I. 


That looks sae proud and high. 


I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing 




Gaily in the sunny beam ; 


IV. 


liist'ning to the wild birds singing, 


Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, 


By h falling crystal stream : 


If that he want the yellow dirt. 


Straight the sky grew black and daring; 


Ye'll cast your head anither airt, 


Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave ; 


And answer him fu' dry. 


Trees with aged arms were warring, 


Y^ 


O'er the swelling drumlie wave. 


But if he hae the name o' gear. 




Ye'll fasten to him like a brier. 


II. 


Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear. 


Such was my life's deceitful morning, 


Be better than the kye 


Such the pleasure 1 enjoy'd: 




But lang or noon, loud tempests storming. 


VI. 


A' my flowery bliss destroy'd. 


But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice. 


Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me. 


Your daddie's gear maks you sae me^i 


She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill; 


The deil a ane wad spier your price, 


Of raony a joy and hope bereav'd me, 


Were ye as poor as I. 


I bear a heart shall support me still. 


VII. 




There lives a lass in yonder park, 




I would nae gie her in her sark, 




For.thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark; 




Ye need na look sae high. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 209 


V. 


To plough and sow, to reap and mow. 


My father bred me early, ; 


MY FATHER WAS A FARMER. 


For one, he said, to labour bred. 


Tune—*' The Weaver and his Shuttle^ OP 


Was a match for fortune fairly, 0. 


l" The following song," snys the poet, "is a wild 




Aapeody, miserably deficient in versification, but as the 


VI. 


•sntiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, for that 




•■»'»son I have a particular pleasure in conning it over."] 


Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor. 




Thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, 0, 


1. 


Till down my weary bones I lay. 


My father was a farmer 


In everlasting slumber, 0. 


Upon the Carrick border, 0, 


No view nor care, but shun whate'er 


And carefully he bred me, 


Might breed me pain or sorrow, : 


In decency and order, ; 


I live to-day as well's I may. 


He bade me act a manly part, 


Regardless of to-morrow, 0. 


Though I had ne'er a farthing, ; 




For without an honest manly heart, 




No man was worth regarding, 0. 


VII. 




But cheerful still, I am as well, 


11. 


As a monarch in a palace, 0, 


Then out into the world 


Tho' Fortune's frown still hunts me dowi^ 


My course I did determine, ; 


With all her wonted malice, : 


Tho' to be rich was not my wish. 


I make indeed my daily bread, 


Yet to be great was charming, : 


But ne'er can make it farther, ; 


My talents they were not the worst, 


But, as daily bread is all I need, 


Nor yet my education, ; 


I do not much regard her, 


Resolv'd was I, at least to try, 




To mend my situation, 0. 






VIII. 


III. 


When sometimes by my labour 


ji many a way, and yain essay. 


I earn a little money, 0, 


I courted fortune's favour, ; 


Some unforeseen misfortune 


Some cause unseen still stept between, 


Comes gen'rally upon me, : 


To frustrate each endeavour, : 


Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, 


Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd, 


Or my goodnatur'd folly, ; 


Sometimes by friends forsaken, 0, 


But come what will, Pve sworn it still. 


And when my hope was at the top. 


I'll ne'er be melancholy, 0. 


I still was worst mistaken, 0. 




IV. 

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, 


IX. 

All you who follow wealth and power, 


"With fortune's vain delusion, 0, 


With unremitting ardour, 0, 


I dropt ray schemes, like idle dreams, 


The more in this you look for bliss. 


And came to this conclusion, : 


You leave your view the farther, 0> 


The past was bad, and the future hid ; 


Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, 


Its good or ill untried, ; 


Or nations to adore you, 0, 


Hut the present hour, was in my pow'r 


A cheerful honest-hearted clown 


And so I would enjoy it, 0. 


I will prefer before you, 


V. 

Ny help, nor hope, nor view had I, 
Nor person to befriend me, ; 




• 


So I must toil, and sweat and broil. 




And labour to sustain me, : 

14 





210 THE POETICAL WORKS 


VI. 


IX. 


JOHI^, BARLEYCORN: 


They filled up a darksome pit 
With water to the brim ; 


A BALLAD. 


They heaved in John BarleycQiii, 


(^Composed on the plan of an old song, of "which David 


There let him sink or swim. 


laing has ?iven an authentic version in hii very curious 




clume of Metrical Tales.] 


X. 


L 


They laid him out upon the floor, 


There were three kings into the east, 


To work him farther woe ; 


Three kings both great and high ; 


And still, as signs of life appear' i, 


And they hae sworn a solemn oath 


They toss'd him to and fro. 


John Barleycorn should die. 


XI. 


II. 


They wasted o'er a scorching flame 


They took a plough and plough'd him down, 


The marrow of his bones ; 


Put clods upon his head ; 


But a miller us'd him worst of all — 


And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath 


He crush'd him 'tween two stones. 


John Barleycorn was dead. 


XII. 


III. 


And they ha'e ta'en his very heart's bloa:^ 


But the cheerful spring came kindly on, 

And show'rs began to fall ; 
John Barleycorn got up again, 


And drank it round and round ; 
A.nd still the more and more they dianic, 
Their joy did more abound. 


And sore surpris'd them all. 


XIII. 


IV. 

The sultry suns of summer came. 
And he grew thick and strong ; 
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears 


John Barleycorn was a hero bold. 


Of noble enterprise ; 
For if you do but taste his blood, 
'Twill make your courage rise. 


That no one should him wrong. 


XIV. 




'Twill make a man forget his woe ; 


V. 

Tne sober autumn enter'd mild, 


'Twill heighten all his joy: 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 


When he grew wan and pale ; 


Tho' the tear were in her eye. 


His beading joints and drooping head 




Show'd he began to fail. 


XV. 




Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 


VI. 


Each man a glass in hand ; 


His colour sicAen'd more and more, 


And may his great posterity 


He faded into age ; 


Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 


And then his enemies began 




To show their deadly rage. 




VII. 

They've ta en a weapon, long and sharp. 


VII. 


And cut him by the knee ; 


THE RIGS 0' BARLEY 


Then ty'd him fast upon a cart^ 
Like a rogue for forgerie. 


Tune — " Com rigs are bonnie.** 




[Two young women of the west, Anne RonaW ana 


VIII. 


Anne Blair, have each, by the district traditiona, been 


They laid him down upon his back, 


claimed as the heroine of this early song.] 


And cudgeird him full sore ; 


I. 


They hung him up before the storm> 


It was upon a Lammas night, 


And turn'd him o'ei and D'er. 


When corn rigs are bonnier 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



21i 



Beneath the moDn's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie : 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 

'Till 'tween the late and early, 
WV sma' persuasion she agreed, 

To see me through the barley. 



The sky was blue, the wind was still, 

The moon was shining clearly ; 
L set her down wi' right good will, 

Amang the rigs o' barley: 
I keii't her heart was a' my aim ; 

I lov'd her most sincerely ; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 



I lock'd her in my fond embrace I 

Her heart was beating rarely: 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
But by the moon and stars so bright, 

That shone that hour so clearly ? 
She ay shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 



I hae been blithe wi' comrades dear ; 

I hae been merry drinkin' ; 
I hae been joyfu' gath'rin' gear; 

I hae been happy thinkin' : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubled fairly, 
That happy night was worth them a': 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

CHORUS. 

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs. 

An* corn rigs are bonnie : 
"11 ne'er forget that happy night, 

Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 



VIII. 

MONTGOMERY'S PEaOT. 

Tune— *' Galla- Water.'* 

[ Mj- Montgomery's Peggy," snys Bums, "was raj 
\eil7 for 8ix or eight months : she had been bred in a 
M'/le of life rather elegant : it cost mo som* heart-aches 
c aet » 'd of tlie affair." The young laiy listened to the 



eloquence of the poet, poured out m ma ay an interview 
and then quietly told him that she stood unaiterab. 
engaged to another,] 

I. 

Altho' my bed were in yon muir, 
Amang the heather, in my plaidie. 

Yet happy, happy would I be, 

Had I my dear Montgomery's Peggy. 



When o'er the hill beat surly storms, 
And winter nights were dark and rainy ; 

I'd seek some dell, and in my arms 
I'd shelter dear Montgomery's Peggy. 



Were I a baron proud and high, 

And horse and servants waiting ready. 

Then a' 'twad gie 0' joy to me, 

The sharin't with Montgomery's Peggy 



IX. 

THE MAUCHLINE LADY. 

Tune — " / had a horse, I had nae mair." 

[The Mauchline lady who won the poet's heart wa/ 
Jean Armour : she loved to relate how the bard made bef 
acquaintance: his dog ran across some linen webs whicft 
she was bleaching among Mauchline gowans, anil he 
apologized so handsomely that she took another look at 
him. To this interview the world owes some of our 
most impassioned strains .] 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle, 

My mind it was nae steady ; 
Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade, 

A mistress still I had ay : 
But when I came roun' by Mauchline town. 

Not dreadin' any body. 
My heart was caught before I thox»ght, 

And by a Mauchline lady. 



THE HIGHLAND LASSIE.. 

Tune — ** The deuks dang o'er my daddy /*' 

['< The Highland Lassie'* was Mary Campbell, whoN 
too early death the poet sung m strains that will end"'« 



212 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



wrhile the language lasts. «' She was," says Burns, " a 
warm-hearted, charming young creature as ever t essed 
» man with generous love."] 



Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, 
Shall ever be my muse's care : 
Their titles a' are empty show ; 
Gie me my Highland lassie, 0. 
Within the glen sae bushy, 0, 
Aboon the plains sae rushy, 0, 
I set me down wi' right good- will, 
To sing my Highland lassie, 0. 



Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine, 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine, 
The world then the love should know 
I bear my Highland lassie, 0. 



But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents flow, 
I'll love my Highland lassie, 0. 

IV. 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change. 
For her bosom burns with honour's gloW; 
My faithful Highland lassie, 0. 



For her I'll dare the billows' roar, 
For her I'll trace a distant shore. 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my Highland lassie, 0. 

VI. 

She has my heart, she has my hand. 
By sacred truth and honour's band ! 
•Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine, my Highland lassie, 0. 

Farewell the glen sae bushy, ! 

Farewell the plain sae rushy, ! 

To other lands I now must go. 

To sing my Highland lassie, 0. 



XI 
PEGGY. 

[The heroine of this song is said to have been "Mutrt 
gomery's Peggy."] 

Tune — " / had a horse, I had nae mair." 



Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns 

Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

Amang the blooming heather : 
Now waving grain, wide o'er tne plain. 

Delights the weary farmer; 
And the moon shines bright, wlien I rove 
night 

To muse upon my charmer. 



The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; 

The plover loves the mountains ; 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 

The soaring hern the fountains ; 
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves 

The path of man to shun it ; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush. 

The spreading thorn the linnet. 



Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find. 

The savage and the tender; 
Some social join, and leagues combine; 

Some solitary wander : 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion; 
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, 

The flutt'ring, gory pinion. 



But Peggy, dear, the ev'ning's clear. 

Thick flies the skimming swallow; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view. 

All fading-green and yellow : 
Come, let us stray our gladsome way. 

And view the charms of nature ; 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 

And every happy creature. 



We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk. 
Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 

I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 
Swear how I love thee dearly : 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



tin 



Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs, 
Not autumn to the farmer, 

So dear can be as thou to me, 
My fair, my lovely charmer I 



xn. 

THE RANTIN' DOG, THE DADDIE O'T. 

Tune — " Uast nook o' Fife." 

[The heroine of this humorous ditty was the mother 
»f " Sonsue. »mirking, dear-bought Beas," a person whom 
(he poet w t-^rded, as he says, both for her form and her 
i^a< e.J 

I. 

WHA my babie-clouts will buy ? 
wha wi 11 tent me when I cry ? 
Wha will kiss me where I lie ? — 
The rantin' dog, the daddie o't. 



wha will own htf did the fau't ? 
wha will buy the groanin' maut ? 
wha will tell me how to ca't ? 
The rantin' dog, the daddie o't. 



When I mount the creepie chair, 
Wha will sit beside me there ? 
Gie me Rob, I'll seek nae mair, 
The rantin' dog, the daddie o't. 



Wha will crack 'to roe my lane? 
Wha will make me fidgin' fain ? 
Wha will kiss me o'er again ? — 
The rantin' dog, the daddie o't. 



XIII. 
MY HEART WAS ANCE, 

Tune — '* To the weavers gin ye go.^^ 

j«'7h* 'hcruB of this song," says Burns, in his note to 
A* Muwum, " is old, the rest is mine." The " bouuje, 
«re«ciin weaver lad" is said to huve been one of the 
•,val8 of the poet in the aflections of a west landlady.] 

I. 
My heart was ance as blythe and free 
ia simmer days v^-ere Kng, 



But a bonnie, westlin weaver lad 
Has gart me change my sang. 

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maidS| 

To the weavers gin ye go ; 
I rede you right gang ne'er at night, 
To the weavers gin ye go . 



My mither sent me to the town, 
To warp a plaiden wab , 

But the weary, weary warpin o't 
Has gart me sigh and sab. 

III. 
A bonnie westlin weaver lad. 

Sat working at his loom ; 
He took my heart as wi' a net, 

In every knot and thrum. 



I sat beside my warpin-wheel. 
And ay I ca'd it roun' ; 

But every shot and every knock. 
My heart it gae a stoun. 



The moon was sinking in the west 

Wi' visage pale and wan. 
As my bonnie westlin weaver lad 

Convoy'd me thro' the glen. 

VI. 

But what was said, or what was done. 

Shame fa' me gin I tell ; 
But, oh ! I fear the kintra soon 
Will ken as weel's mj'sel. 

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maida. 

To the weavers gin ye go ; 
I rede you right gang ne'er at night. 
To the weavers gin ye go. 



XIV. 

NANNIE. 
Tune.— " J/y iVanme, 0." 

[Agnes Fleming, servant at Jalcothill, flsi'ired «». 
fine song : she died at an adviinoed ago, and was mom 
remarkable for the beauty of her form than face. Whe« 
questioned about the love of Burns, she smiled and leiJ, 
'* Aye, atweel he made a great wark about me."] 



Behind yon hills, where Lugar flows, 
'Mang moors an' mosses many, O 



214 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



The -wintry sun the day has closed, 
And I'll awa to Nannie, 0. 



The westlin wind blaws loud an' shrill ; 

The night's baith mirk and rainy, ; 
Dut I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal, 

An vwre the hills to Nannie, 0. 



My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young ; 

Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, 0: 
May ill befa' the flattering tongue 

That w*»J beguile my Nannie, 0. 



Her face is fair, her heart is true. 
As spotless as she's bonnie, : 

The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew, 
Nae purer is than Nannie, 0. 



A country lad is my degree, 

An' few there be that ken me, ; 

But what care 1 how few they be ? 
I'm welcome ay to Nannie, 0. 



My riches a's my penny-fee. 
An' I maun guide it cannie, ; 

But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, 0. 



Our auld guidman delights to view 
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, ; 

But I'm as blythe th%i bauds his pleugh, 
An' has nae care but Nannie, 0. 

VIII. 

Come weel, come woe, I care na by, 
I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, : 

Nae ither care in life have I, 
Bat live, an' love my Nannie, 0. 



I sat me down to ponder. 
Upon an auld tree root : 

Auld Ayr ran by before me, 
And bicker'd to the seas ; 

A cushat crooded o'er me. 
That echoed thro' the braes. 



XV. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Tune — ^'- John Anderson myjo." 

[This verse, written early, and probably intended for 
Jib starting verse of a song, was found among the papers 
»■ the poet, j 

One night as I did wander, 
When corn begins to shoot, 



XVI. 

BONNIE PEGxlY ALISON. 

Tune — ^^ Braes o' Balquihidder." 

[On those whom Burns loved, he poured out aongi 
without limit. Peggy Alison is said, by a weitern tra 
dition, to be Montgomery's Peggy, but this seems doubt' 
ful.] 

CHORUS. 

I'll kiss thee yet, yet. 
An' I'll kiss thee o'er again ; 

An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet. 
My bonnie Peggy Alison ! 



Ilk care and fear, when thou art neari 

I ever mair defy them, ; 
Young kings upon their hansel throne 

Are no sae blest as I am, ! 

II. 
When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure, 0, 
I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share 

Than sic a moment's pleasure, ! 



And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 

I swear, I'm thine for ever, 1— 
And on thy lips I seal my vow. 
And break it shall I never, 1 
I'll kiss thee yet, yet. 

An' I'll kiss thee o'er again ; 
An' I'll kiss thee yet. yet. 
My bonnie Peggy Alison I 



XVII. 

THERE'S NOUGHT BUT CABE 

Tune — *' Green grow the rashes J^ 

["Man wan made when nature was but an apprentice 
but woman is the last and most perfect work of na 
ture," says an old writer, in a rare old book; a passage 



OF ROBEET BURNS. 



213 



•rhich expresses the sentimrit of Burns ; yet it is all but 


Her dear idea round my heart, 


lertain, that the Ploughman Sard was unacquainted with 


Should tenderly entwine. 


■'Cupid'i VVhirlygig," where whese words are to be 
ci'ud 


Though mountains rise, and deserts h4 w\f 




And oceans roar between ; 


CHORUS. 


Yet, dearer than my deathless soul. 


Green grow the rashes, ! 


I still would love my Jean 


Greeu grow the rashes, 0! 




The sweetest hours that e'er I spend 




KiQ spent amang the lasses, 0. 




I. 


XIX. 


There's nought but care on ev'ry han', 


ROBIN. 


In every hour that passes, 0: 




What signifies the lif«\ o' man, 


Tune—" Daintie Davie." 


An' 'twere na for the lasses, 0. 


[Stothard painted a clever little picture froir th 




characteristic ditty: the cannie wife, it was evident 


11. 


saw in Robin's palm something which tickled her, an* 


The warly race may riches chase, 


a curious intelligence sparkled in the eyes of her gossips 


An' riches still m.» y fly them, ; 


I. 


An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 


There was a lad was born in Kyle, 


Their h<4arts can ne'er enjoy them, 0. 


But whatna day 0' whatna style 




I doubt it's hardly worth the while 


III. 


To be sae nice wi' Robin. 


But gie me a cannv hour at e'en. 


Robin was a rovin' boy, 


My arm^ about my dearie, ; 


Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin' ; 


An'warly f*ares, an' warly men. 


Robin was a rovin' boy. 


May a' gae tapsalteerie, 0. 


Rantin' rovin' Robin! 


IV. 

For 70U sae douce, ye sneer at this, 


II. 

Our monarch's hindmost year bat ane 


Ye're nought but senseless asses, : 


Was five-and-twenty days begun. 


The wisest man the warl' e'er saw. 


'Twas then a blast 0' Janwar win* 


He dearly lov'd the lasses, 0. 


Blew hansel in on Robin 


V. 


III. 


Auld Nature swears the lovely dears 


The gossip keekit in his loof. 


Her noblest work she classes, : 


Quo' she, wha lives will see the proof, 


Her 'prentice han' she try'd on man. 


This waly boy will be nae coof, 


An' then she made the lasses, 0. 


I think we'll ca' him Robin 


Green grow the rashes, ! 




jreen grow the rashes, ! 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend 
Are spent amang the lasses, 0. 


IV. 


He'll hae misfortunes great and sma', 


But ay a heart aboon them a' ; 
He'll be a credit to us a'. 




We'll a' be proud Robin. 


XVIII. 


V. 

But sure as three times three mak nine. 


MY JEAN! 


I see by ilka score and line, 


Tune — " The Northern Lass." 


This chap will dearly like our kin'. 




So leeze me on thee, Robin. 


[The lady on whom this passionate verse was written 




ras Jean Armour. 


VI. 


TrocoH cruel fate should bid us part, 


Guid faith, quo' she, I doubt you gar. 


Far as the pole and line, 


The bonnie lasses lie aspar. 



216 THE POETICAL U OKKS 


But twenty fauts ye may hae waur, 


That feeling heart but acts a part — 


So blessin's on thee, Robin l 


'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 


Robin was a rovin' boy, 




Ran tin' rovin', rantin' rovin' } 


IV. 




The frank address, the soft caress. 


Robin was a rovin' boy, 




Rantin' rovin' Robin 1 


Are worse than poison'd darts of steel ; 




The frank address and politesse 




Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. 


XX 

HER FLOWING LOCKS. 




Tune — (unknown. ) 


XXII. 


fOne day— It is tradition that speaks— Burns had his 


YOUNG PEGGY. 


oot in the stirrup to return from Ayr to Mauchline, when 


Tune — *■'' Last time I cam o'er the muir." 


» young lady of great beauty rode up to the inn, and or- 




lered refreshmer.ts for her servants : he made these lines 


[In these verses Burns, it is said, bade fareweU to oiy 


At the moment, to keep, he said, so much beauty in his 


on whom he had, according to his own account, wastat 


Bemory.] 


eight months of sourtship. We hear no more of Mont 




gomery's Peggy.] 


Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 




Adown her neck and bosom hing ; 


I. 


How sweet unto that breast to cling, 


Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass. 


And round that neck entwine her ! 


Her blush is like the morning, 


Her lips are roses wat wi' dew. 


The rosy dawn, the springing grass, 


0, what a feast her bonnie mou' I 


With early gems adorning : 


Her cheeks a mair celestial hue. 


Her eyes outshone the radiant beams 


A crimso^i still diviner. 


That gild the passing shower, 




And glitter o'er the crystal streams. 




And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 




XXI. 


II. 


LEAVE NOVELS. 


Her lips, more than the cherries bright, 


Tune—'* Mauchline belles.*' 


A richer dye has graced them ; 
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight. 


I Who these Mauchline belles were the bard in other 


And sweetly tempt to taste them : 


rerse informs us : — 


Her smile is, as the evening mild. 


" Mies Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine, 


When feather'd tribes are courting. 


Miss Smith, she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw; 
There's beauty and fortune to get with Miss Morton, 


And little lambkins wanton wild, 


But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'."] 


In playful bands disporting. 


I. 

LEAVE novels, ye Mauchline belles, 


III. 
Were fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 


Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel; 


Such sweetness would relent her, 


Such witching books are baited hooks 


As blooming spring unbends the broif 


Foi rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel. 


Of surly, savage winter. 




Detraction's eye no aim can gain. 


II. 


Her winning powers to lessen ; 


Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 


And fretful envy grins in vain 


They make your youthful fancies reel ; 


The poison'd tooth to fasten. 


They heat your brains, and fire your veins. 




And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel. 


IV. 




Ye powers of honour, love, and truthj 


III. 


From every ill defend her ; 


ieware a tongue that's smoothly hung, 


Inspire the highly-favour'd j outh. 


A heart that warmly seems to feel ; . 


The destinies intend her : 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



IJl. 



Still fan the sweet connubial flame 
Responsive in each bosom, 

And bless the dear parental name 
With many a filial blossom. 



XXIII 

THE CURE FOR ALL CARE, 
rune — *' Prepare, -ny dear brethren, to the tavern 

let's fly:' 

[TarboJton Lodge, of which the poet was a membrr, 
was noted for its socialities. Masonic lyrics are all oi ■ 
iark and mystic order; and those of Burns are scarcei, 
in exception.] 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight. 
No sly man of business, contriving to snare — 
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care. 

II. 
The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; 
I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ; 
But a club of good fellows, like those that are 

here, 
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 

III. 
Here passes the squire on his brother — his horse ; 
There centum per centum, the cit with his 

purse ; 
But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air 1 
There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care. 



The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fail, 
That a big-bell>.d bottle's a cure for all care. 

V. 

I once was per*»naded a venture to make; 

A letter iuforn-d me that all was to wreck; — 

But the pursy old landlord just waddled up 

stairs, 
With a glorioi/f bottle that ended my cares. 

VI. 

'Life's cares tney are comforts,"' — a maxim 

laid do«'n 
By the bard, what d'je call him, that wore the 

bla^k ^own ; 



And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair ; 
For a big-bellied bottle's a heav'n of care. 

VII. 

ADDED IN A MASON LODGE. 

Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erfiow, 
The honours masonic prepare fcr to throw; 
May every true brother of the compa«8 h.nA 

square 
Have a big-bellied bottle wheti harass'd with 

care I 



XXIV. 
ELIZA. 
Tune — " Gilder oy: 



[My late excellent friend, John Gait, informed me tna< 
the Eliza of this sung was his relative, and that her : 
was Elizabeth Barbour.] 



From thee, Eliza, I must go, 

And from my native shore ; 
The cruel Fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar : 
But boundless oceans roaring wide 

Between my love and me. 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee ! 



Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear, 

We part to meet no morel 
The latest throb that leaves my heart, 

While death stands victor by, 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part. 

And thine that latest sigh 1 



Y ouQg's Ni«ht Thouffhts. 



XXV. 

THE SONS OF OLD KILLIL. 

'Tune — *♦ Shawnboy." 

["This song, wrote by Mr. Burns, was sung by him 
in the Kiltn;iriiock-Kilwinning Lodge, in 1786, and give« 
by him to Mr. P-irker, who was Muster of the Lodg^ft ^* 



218 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



These interesting words are on the ori«final, in the poet's 
handwriting, .n tJie possession of Mr. Gabriel Neil, of 
Glasgow.] 



Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, 

To follow the noble vocation ; 
Four thrifty old mother has scarce such another 

To sit in that honoured station. 
Tre little to say, but only to pray, 

As praying's the ton of your fashion ; 
A prayer from the muse you well may excuse, 

'Tis seldom her favourite^passion. 

II. 

Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the 
tide, 

Who marked each element's border ; 
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, 

Whose sovereign statute is order ; 
Within this dear mansion, may wayward con- 
tention 

Or withered envy ne'er enter ; 
May »iecrecy round be the mystical bound, 

And brotherly love be the centre. 



XXVI. 

M E N I E. 

Tune. — ^^ Johnny^ s grey breeks." 

■* of the lady who inspired this song no one has given 
toy account : It first appeared in the second edition of the 
wet's works, and as the chorus was written by an Edin- 
burgh gentleman, it has been surmised that the song wag 
H matter of friendship rather than of the heart.] 



Again rejoicing nature seea 

Her robe assume its vernal hues, 
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze. 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 
And maun I still on Menie doat, 

An 1 bear the scorn that's in hfer e'e ? 
For it's j -it, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, 
An' it winua let a body be. 



In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 
In vain to me the vi'lets spring; 

la vain to me, in glen or sbaw, 
The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 



The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
Wi' jt/y the tentie seedsman stalks ; 

But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of wnv that never wauka 

1 V. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry. 

The stately swan majestic swims, 
And every thing is blest but I. 

V. 

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, 
And owre the moorland whi^stles shrilly 

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, 
I meet him on the dewy hilL 



And when the lark, 'tween light and dark^ 
Blythe waukeus by the daisy's side, 

And mounts and sings on flittering winga, 
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 



Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, 

And raging bend the naked tree: 
Thy gloom will sooth my cheerless soul, 
When nature all is sad like me I 
And maun I still on Menie doat. 

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? 
For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, 
An' it winna let a body be. 



XXVII. 
THE FAREWELL 

TO THK 

BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE 

TARBOLTON. 

Tune — ** Good-night, and Joy he wV you a'." 

[Burns, it is said, sung this song in the St. James • 
Lodge of Tarbolton, wlien his chest was on the way tc 
Greenock : men are yet living who had the honour erf 
hearing him — the concluding verse affected the tV:hi4 
»odge.] 

I. 
Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu I 
Dear brothers of the mystic tie I 
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few. 
Companions of my social joy I 



Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, 
Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba', 

With melting heart, and brimful eye, 
I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'. 

II. 

Oft have I met your social band, 

And spent the cheerful, festive night ; 
Oft, honour'd with supreme command, 

Presided o'er the sons of light : 
And by that hieroglyphic bright, 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw 1 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa'. 



May freedom, harmony, and love 

Unite you in the grand design, 
Beneath th' Omniscient Eye above, 

The glorious Architect divine I 
That you may keep th' unerring line. 

Still rising by the plummet's law. 
Till order bright completely shine, 

Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. 



-^jid you farewell ! whose merits claim, 

Justly, that highest badge to wear I 
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name, 

To masonry and Scotia dear 1 
A last request permit me here, 

When yearly ye assemble a'. 
One round — I ask it with a tear,— 

To him, the Bard that's far awa'. 



XXVIII. 



ON CESSNOCK BANKS. 

Tune -•"//'A* be a butcher neat and trim.** 

lT-*i» "5 are many variationa of this »nng, which was 
Irat printed by Cromek from the oral communication of 
K Glasgow lady, oo wbui^e charmB the poet, in early life, 
composed it.) 



On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells ; 

Could I describe her shape and mien ; 
Our lasses a' she f;ir excels, 

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 



She's sweeter than the morning dawn 
When risxng Phoebus first is seen. 

And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een 



She's stately like yon youthful ash, 
That grows the cowslip braes between, 

And drinks the stream with vigour fresh ; 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een 



She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn. 
With flow'rs so white and leaves so green 

When purest in the dewy morn ; 

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een 

V. 

Her looks are like the vernal May, 
When evening Phoebus shines serene. 

While birds rejoice on every spray — 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 

VI. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 

That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en, 

When flow'r-reviving rains are past ; 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 



Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, 
When gleaming sunbeams intervene, 

And gild the distant mountain's brow ; 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 

VIII. 

Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem. 
The pride of all the flow'ry scene. 

Just opening on its thorny stem ; 

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 



Her teeth are like the nightly snow 
When pale the morning rises keen, 

While hid the murmuring streamlets flow 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een 



Her lips are like j wi cherries ripe, 

That sunny wall' from Boreas screen— 

They tempt the taste and charm the sight 
An' she has twa sparkling roguisa een. 



220 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Her teeth are like a flock of sheep; 

With fleeces newly washen clean, 
That slowl/ mount the rising steep ; 

An* she has twa glancin' roguish een. 



Dor breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, 

^hen Phoebus sinks behind the seas ; 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een, 

XIII. 

Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush 
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen, 

While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 

XIV. 

Put it's not her air, her form, her face, 
The' matching beauty's fabled queen, 

*Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace, 
An' chiefly in her roguish een. 



XXIX. 

MARY! 

Tnne—"Blue Bonnets.'* 

[In the original manuscript Burns calls this song *' A 
Player for Mary ;" his Highland Mary is supposed to be 
lao luspiier.l 

I. 

PowERb celestial ! whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair. 
While in distant climes I wander. 

Let my Mary be your care : 
Let her form sae fair and faultless, 

Fair and faultless as your own. 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit 

Draw youi choicest influence down. 



Make the gales you waft around her 

Soft and peaceful as her breast ; 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her. 

Soothe her bosom into rest : 
Gnardian angels I protect her. 

When in distant lauds I roam ; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me, 

Make her bosom still my home. 



XXX. 

THELASSOFBALLOCHMYLB. 

Tune — ''Miss Forbes' s Farewell to Banff." 

[Miss Alexander, of Ballochmyle, as the poet tells h«l 
in a letter, dated November, 1786, inspired this popnlal 
song. He chanced to meet her in one of his fa/ourit* 
walks on the banks of the Ayr, and the fine scene an4 
the lovely lady set the muse to work. Miss Alexander 
perhaps unaccustomed to this forward wooing of thf 
muse, allowed the offering to remain unnoticed for % 
time : it is now in a costly frame, and hung in her cham- 
ber — as it deserves to be.] 



'TwAS even — the dewy fields were green^ 

On every blade the pearls hang, 
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean. 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang : 
In ev'ry glen the mavis sang, 

All nature listening seem'd the while. 
Except where greenwood echoes rang 

Amang the braes o* Ballochmyle I 



With careless step I onward stray'd, 

My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy, 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye. 

Her air like nature's vernal smile. 
Perfection whisper'd passing by. 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 



Fair is the morn in flow'ry May, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild 
When roving thro' the garden gay, 

Or wand'ring in the lonely wild ; 
But woman, nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile 
Even there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

IV. 

0, had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain, 
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain, 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain. 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonnie lass o' Ballochmylo. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



•224 



Thet pride might climb the slippery steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine : 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep 

Or downward seek the Indian mine ; 
flive me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks, or till the soil, 
And ev'ry day have joys divine 

With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 



XXXI. 
THE GLOOMY NIGHT. 

Tune — ''Roslin Castle.'' 

[" 1 had taken," says Burns, " the last farewell of my 
friends, my chest was on the road to Greenock, and I had 
composed the last song 1 should ever measure in Caledo- 
aia— 

' The gloomy night is gathering fast.' "] 

I. 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast; 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
The hunter now has left the moor. 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure ; 
While here I wander, prest with care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 



The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn. 
By early Winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure sky, 
She sees the scowling tempest fly: 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave — 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 



'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
'Tifi not that fatal deadly shore ; 
Tho' death in ev'ry shape app&ar, 
The wretched have no more to fear ! 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierc'd with many a wound ; 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

IV. 

Farewell old Coila's hills and dales, 
Hei heathy moors and winding vales ; 



The scenes where wretched fancy rovea^ 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves I 
Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes i 
My peace with these, my love with those 
The bursting tears my heart declare ; 
Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr \ 



xxxn. 
WHAR DID YE GET 

Tune — ** Bonnie Dundee'* 

[This is one of the first songs which 6u rns^ommniL 
cated to Johnson's Musical Museum : the starting verM 
is partly old and part.y new : the se ■ ond is whollv by hil 
hand.] 

I. 
0, WHAB, did ye get that hauver meal bannock 1 

silly blind body, dinna ye see ? 
I gat it frae a young brisk sodger laddie. 

Between Saint Johnston and bonnie Dundee. 
gin I saw the laddie that gae me't ! 

Aft has he doudl'd me up on his knee ; 
May Heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie, 

And send him safe hame to his babie and 
me ! 

II. 

My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lipple, 

My blessin's upon thy bonnie e'e brie ! 
Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie, 

Thou's ay the dearer and dearer to me I 
But I'll big a bower on yon bonnie banks, 

Where Tay rins wimplin' by sae clear ; 
And I'll deed thee in the tartan sae fine, 

And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear 



xxxm. 

THE JOYFUL WIDOWER 
Tune — " Maggy Laudtf } 

[Most of this song is by Burns: his fancy wai ft. < 
with images of matrimonial joy or infelicity, aad \m ^:i 
them evei ready at the call of the muse It wu ^T 
printed in the Musical Museum 1 

I. 

I MARRIED with a scolding wife 
The fourteenth of November ; 

She made me weary of my life, 
By one unruly member. 



222 THE POETICAL WORKS 


Long did I bear the heavy yoke, 


XXXV. 


And many griefs attended; 




But to my comfort be it spoke, 


I AM MY MAMMY'S AE BAIRN. 


Now, now her life is ended. 


Tune— "Pm o'er young to marry yet.** 


II. 


[The title, and part of the chorus only of this song, a?l 


"^e liv'd full one-and-twenty years 


old 1 the rest is by Burns, and was written for JobnMA. 


A man and wife together ; 


I. 


A.t length from me her course she steer'd. 


I AM my mammy's ae bairn, 


And gone I know not whither : 


Wi' unco folk I weary, Sir ; 


Would I could guess, I do profess. 


And lying in a man's bed. 


I speak, and do not flatter, 


I'm fley'd it make me eerie, Sir. " 


Of all the woman in the world. 


I'm o'er young to marry yet ; 


I never could come at her. 


I'm o'er young to marry yet ; 


Ill 


I'm o'er young— 'twad be a s'li 


Her body is bestowed well, 


To tak' me frae my mammy yet 


A handsome grave does hide her ; 


II. 


But sure her soul is not in hell, 




The deil would ne'er abide her. 


Hallowmas is come and gane. 


I rather think she is aloft. 


The nights are lang in winter. Sir ; 


And imitating thunder ; 
For why, — methinks I hear her voicB 


And you an' I in ae bed, 

In trouth, I dare na venture. Sir. 


Tearing the clouds asunder. 


III. 




Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind. 




Blaws through the leafless timmer. Sir; 




But, if ye come this gate again, 




I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. 


XXXIV. 


I'm o'er young to marry yet ; 


COME DOWN THE BACK STAIRS. 


I'm o'er young to marry yet ; 




I'm o'er young, 'twad be a sin 


f utne — •* Whistle, and I'll come to i/ou, my lad," 


To tak me frae my mammy yet. 


[The air of this song was composed by John Bnico, a 




Dumfries fiddler. Burns gave another and happier ver- 




lion to the work of Thomson : this was written for the 




Huseura of Johnson, where it was first published.] 




CHORUS. 


xxxvr. 


whistle, and I'll come 


BONNIE LASSIE, WILL YE GO 


To you, my lad ; 




whistle, and I'll come 


Tune—" The birks of Aberfeldy.** 


To you, my lad : 


[An old strain, called " The Birks of Abergeldie," wai 


Tho' father and mither 


the forerunner of this sweet song : it was written, the 


Should baith gae mad. 


poet says, standing under the Fails ot Abevfeldy, oeaf 


whistle, and I'll come 


Moness, in Perthshire, during one of the tours whicii be 
made to the north, in the year 1787.] 


To you, my lad. 






CHORUS. 


Come down the back stairs 


Bonnie lassie, will ye go. 


When ye come to court me ; 


Will ye go, will ye go ; 


Come down the back stairs 


Bonnie lassie, will ye go 


When ye come to court me ; 


To the birks of Aberfeldy ? 


C )me down the back stairs. 




And let naebody see, 


I. 


And come as ye were na 


Now simmer blinks on flowery braft8. 


Coming to me. 


And o'er the crystal streamlet plays; 



OF EGBERT BUKNS 



'^125 



Come let us spend the lightsome days 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 



II. 



The little birdies blithely sing, 
While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing 
lu the birks of Aberfeldy. 



The braes ascend, like lofty wa*s, 
The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's, 
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 



The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, 
White o'er the linns the burnie pours, 
And rising, weets wi' misty showers 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 



Let Fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee, 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 
Will ye go, will ye go ; 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go 
To tl»e birks of Aberfeldy ? 



xxxvn. 



MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. 
Tunf-— M'Pherson's Rant:* 

[This vehement and daring song had its origin in an 
ritier atd inferior strain, recording the fe&lings of a noted 
ll»«boo-.» when brought to "justify his deeds on the 
ftUowi tiee at Inverness.] 



Faeewelt., ye dungeons dark and Srong, 

The wretch's destinie ! 
Ilacpherson's time will not be long 
On yonder gallows-tree. 

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gaed he ; 
He pia^'d a spring, and danc'd it roimd. 
Below tue gallows-tree. 



Oh, what is death but parting >^*kp-tb * 

On many a bloody plain 
I've dar'd his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again 1 

III. 
Untie these bands from off my bands, 

And bring to me my swovd ; 
And there's no a man in all Scotland, 
But I'll brave him at a word. 



I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife » 

I die b^r treacherie : 
It burns my heart I must depart. 

And not avenged be. 

V. 

Now farewell light — thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath the sky! 
May coward shame distain his name, 
The wretch that dares not die ! 
Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gaed he ; 
He play'd a spring, and dane'd it roTindt 
Below the gallows-tree. 



XXXVIII. 



BRAW LADS OF GALL> ♦>^ATFE 

Tune—'* Galla Wtter. 

[Burns found this song in the collection of Herd 
added the first verse, made other but not material emen 
dations, and published it in Johnson : in 1793 he wroU 
another version for Thomson.] 

CHORUS. 

Braw, braw lads of Galla Water ; 

braw lads of Galla Water : 
I'll kilt my coats aboon mj knee, 

And follow nay love thro' the water. 



Sae fair her kair, sae brent her brow, 
Sae bonny blue her een, my dearie ; 

Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou*, 
The mair I kiss she's ay my dearie. 

II. 
O'er yon bank and o'er yon brae, 
O'er yon moss amang the heather ; 



224 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



. 11 kilt my coats aooon my knee, 


II. 


And follow my love thro' the water. 


Crystal streamlets gently flowing, 




Busy haunts of base mankind. 


III. 


Western breezes softly blowing, 


Down amang the broom, the broom, 


Suit not my distracted mind. 


Down amang the broom, my dearie. 




The lassie lost a silken snood, 


III. 


That cost her mony a blirt and bleary. 


In the cause of Right engaged. 


Braw, braw lads of Galla Water ; 


Wrongs injurious to redress, 


braw lads of Galla-Water : 


Honour's war we strongly waged, 


I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, 


But the heavens denied success 


And follow my love thro' the water. 


I V. 




Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us. 




Not a hope that dare attend, 


XXXIX. 


The wild world is all before us— 


But a world without a friend 


STAY, MY CHARMER. 




Tune— "^n Gille duhh ciar dhuhhr 





[The air of this song was picked up by the poet in one 
sf his northeri. tours : his Highland excursions coloured 
otany of his lyric compositions.] 

I. 
Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? 
Cruel, cruel, to deceive me ! 
Well you know how much yon grieve me ; 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 



By my love so ill requited ; 

By the faith you fondly plighted ; 

By the pangs of lovers slighted ; 
Do not, do not leave me so I 
Do not, do not leave me so ! 



XL. 



THICKEST NIGHT, O'ERHANG MY 
DWELLING. 

Tune — " Strathallan's Lament." 

rrhe Viscoxint; Strathallan, whom this song comme- 
incrai6« was Wil.iam Druramond : he was slain at the 
sarnageof Culloden. It was .ong believed that he es- 
taped to France and died in exile.] 



Thickest night, surround my dwelling! 

Howling tempests, o'er me rave I 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling. 

Roaring by my lonely cave I 



Tune- 



XLI. 

MY HOGGIE. 
What will I do gin my Hoggit die. f" 



[Burns was struck with the pastoral wildness of tlu 
Liddesdale air, and wrote these words to it for the Six 
seum: the first line only is old.] 

What will I do gin my Hoggie die ? 

My joy, my pride, my Hoggie! 
My only beast, I had nae mae, 

And vow but I was vogie ! 
The lee-lang night we watch'd the fauid, 

Me and my faithfu' doggie ; 
We heard nought but the roaring linn, 

Amang the braes sae scroggie ; 
But the houlet cry'd frae the castle wa', 

The blitter frae the boggie, 
The tod reply'd upon the hill, 

I trembled for my Hoggie. 
When day did daw, and cocks did craw. 

The morning it was foggie ; 
An' unco tyke lap o'er the dyke, 

And maist has kill'd my Hoggie. 



XLII. 

HER DADDIE FORBAI>. 

Tune — *' jMTwpm' John." 

[This is one of the old sonps whi(;h Ritson accunw 
Burns of amendmg for tne Museum: little of it how* 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 226 


•ver. is his, save a tof ch ^ere and there— but they are 




fiurns's touches.] 


XLIV. 


I. 


THE 


Hbk daddie forbad, her minnie forbad; 


YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 


Forbidden she wadna be: 




She wadna trow't, the browst she brew'd 


Tune— '' Mora ff." 


Wad taste sae bitterlie. 


[The Young Highland Rover of this strain is suppos«i 


The lang lad they ca' jumpin' John 


by some to be the Chevalier, and with more probabi.ity 


Beguiled the bonnie lassie, 


by others, to be a Gordon, as the song was composed if 




consequence of the poet's visit to '< bonnie Castle Gi^T 


The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 


don," in September, 1787.] 


Beguiled the bonnie lassie. 


I. 


II. 


Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 


A cow and a cauf, a yowe and a hauf, 


The snaws the mountains cover ; 


And ^hretty gude shillin's and three; 


Like winter on me seizes. 


A vera gude tocher, a cotter-man's dochter, 


Since my young Highland rover 


Thn lass wi' the bonnie black e'e. 


Far wanders nations over. 


The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 


Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 


Beguiled the bonnie lassie, 


May Heaven be his warden : 


The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 


Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 


Beguiled the^bonnie lassie. 


And bonnie Castle-Gordon ! 


XLIII 


II. 
The trees now naked groaning. 




Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging. 


UP IN THE MORNING EARLY 


The birdies dowie moaning, 


Tune—" Cold blows the wind.'* 


Shall a' be blithely singing. 


I" The chorus of this song," says the poet, m nis notes 


And every flower be springing. 


Dn the Scottish Lyrics, << is old, the two stanzas are 


Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day. 


mine." The air is ancient, and was a favourite * 


When by his mighty Warden 


Mary Stuart, the queen of William the Tb'>d.] 


My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, 




And bonnie Castle-Gordon. 


CHORUS. 




Up in the morning's no for me. 
Up in the morning early ; 






When a' the hills are cover'd yiV snaw, 




I'm sure it's winter fairly. 


XLV. 


I. 


HEY, THE DUSTY MILLER. 


CArLD blaws the wind frae east to west, 


Tune—'* The Dusty Miller:' 


The drift is driving sairly ; 




Sae loud and shill I hear the blast. 


[The Dusty Miller is an old stram, modified for t(ic 


I'm sure it's winter fairly. 


Museum by Burns: it is a happy specimen of hig tu2# 
and skill in making the new look like the old.] 


II. 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn 


I 

Hey, the dusty miller. 


A' day they fare but sparely ; 


And his dusty coat; 


And lang's the night frae e'en to mom — 


He will win a shilling. 


I'm sure it's winter fairly. 


Or he spend a groat. 


Up in the morning's no for me, 


Dusty was the coat, 


Up in the morning early ; 


Dusty was the colour, 


When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, 


Dusty was the kiss 


I'm sure it's winter fairly. 
15 


That I got frae the miller 



226 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Hey, the dusty miller, 
And his dusty sack ; 
Leeze me on the calling 
Fills the dusty peck. 

Fills the dusty peck, 

Brings the dusty siller ; 
I wad gie my coatie 
For the dusty miller. 



XLVI. 

THERE WAS A LASS. 
Tune — '* Duncan Davison^ 

[ "here are several other versions of Duncan DaviBon, 
fsfe ill it is more delicate to allude to than to quote : thie 
v^ is in t/ie Museum.] 

I. 

There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, 

And she held o'er the moors to spin ; 
-.here was a lad that foUow'd her, 

They ca'd him Duncan Davison. 
The moor was driegh, and Meg was skiegh, 

Her favour Duncan could na win ; 
For wi' the roke she wad him knock, 

And ay she shook the temper-pin. 



As o'er the moor they lightly foor, 

A burn was clear, a glen was green, 
7pon the banks they eas'd-their shanks, 

And ay she set the wheel between : 
But Duncan swore a haly aith, 

That Meg should be a bride the morn, 
?hen Meg took up her spinnin' graith. 

And flang them a' out o'er the burn. 



He'll big a house, — a wee, wee house, 

And we will live like king and queei^ 
«&e blythe and merry we will be 

When ye set by the wheel at e'en. 
h man may drink and no be drunk; 

A man may fight and no be slain • 
A man may kiss a bonnie lass, 

And ay be welcome back again. 



XLVTI. 

THENIEL MENZIES' BONNIE MAKY. 

Tune.—" The Ruffian's Rant:' 

[Burns, it is telieved, wrote this song during his firi^ 
Highland tour, when he danced among the noithcni 
dames, to the tune of "Bab at the Bowster," till th« 
morning sun rose and reproved them from tiie top ot d«i 
Lomond.] 

I. 

In coming by the brig o' Dye, 

At Darlet we a blink did tarry ; ' 
As day was dawin in the sky. 

We drank a health to bonnie Mary. 

Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary; 

Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 



Her een sae bright, her brow sae white. 
Her haffet locks as brown's a berry ; 

And ay, they dimpl't wi' a smile. 
The rosy cheeks o' bonnie Mary. 



We lap and danced the lee lang day. 

Till piper lads were wae and weary , 
But CharHe gat the spring to pay, 
For kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 

Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary ; 

Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary ; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
E[issin' Theniel's bonnie Marv. 



XLVIII. 

THE BANKS OF THE DE\ ON. 

Tune. — " Bhannerach dhon na chrV 

[These verses were composed on a charming youi.g 
lady, Gharlotto Hamilton, sister to the poet's fiiend, 
Gavin Hamilton of Mauchline, residing, when the song 
was written, at Harvieston, on the banks of the Devon 
in til/ county of Clackmannan.] 

How pleasant the banks of the cleai winding 
Devon, 
With green spreading bushes, and flowtrg 
blooming fair 1 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 22? 


But the bonniest flower on the banks of the 


III. 


Devon 


But, Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith— 


Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the 


Ha, ha, the girdin o't! 


Ayr. 


I'se bless you wi' my hindmost breath — 


Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 


Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 


In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the 


Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith. 


dew; 


The beast again can bear us baith, 


And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 


And auld Mess John will mend the ekaidi, 


That steals on the evening each leaf to re- 
new. 

II. 


And clout the bad girdin o't. 


D spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes. 




^yith chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn; 




And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 


L. 


The verdure and pride of the garden and 
lawn ! 


THE PLOUGHMAN. 


Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies, 


Tune — " Up wi' the ploughman,''* 


And England, triumphant, display her proud 


[The old words, of which these in the Museum ar« 6k 


Rose: 


altered and amended version, are in the collection Og 


A. fairer than either adorns the green valleys, 


Herd.-) 


Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. 


I. 




The ploughman he's a bonnie lad, 




His mind is ever true, jo. 
His garters knit below his knee, 






His bonnet it is blue, jo. 


XLIX. 


Then up wi' him my ploughman lad. 


WEARY FA' YOU, DUNCAN GRAY. 


And hey my merry ploughman ! 
Of a' the trades that I do ken. 


Tune — ''Duncan Gray." 


Commend me to the ploughman. 


[The original Duncan Gray, out of which the present 


1 1. 


trait was extracted for Johnson, had no right to be called 
lad of grace : anotlier version, and in a happier mood, 


My ploughman he comes hame at e*ea. 


Iras written for Thomson.] 


He's aften wat and weary ; 


I. 


Cast ofi" the wat, put on the dry, 


Weaby fa' you, Duncan Gray — 


And gae to bed, my dearie I 


Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 


III. 


Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray — 


I will wash my ploughman's hose, 


Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 


And I will dress his o'erlay; 


When a' the lave gae to their play, 


I will mak my ploughman's bed. 


Then I maun sit the lee lang day, 
And jog the cradle wi' my tae, 


And cheer him late and early. 


And a' for the girdin o't I 


IV. 




I hae been east, I hae been west, 


II. 


I hae been at Saint Johnston; 


Bonnie was the Lammas moon — 


The bonniest sight that e'er I saw 


Ila, ha, the girdin o't! 


Was the ploughman laddie dancin*. 


Glowrin' a' the hills aboon — 




Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 


V. 


The girdin brak, the beast cam down. 


Snaw-white stockins on his legs. 


I tint my curch, and baith my shoon; 


And siller buckles glancin' , 


Ah I Duncan, ye're an unco loon — 


A gudc blue bonnet on his head — 


Wae on tht bad girdin o't! 


And 0, but he was handsome ' 



i 

12^ THE POETICAL WORKS 


VI. 

Commend me to the barn-yard, 
And the corn-mou, man; 


death of her sister, and the still more melancho y deati 
of her sister's husbar.d, the late Earl of Loudon, in 1796. ' 

I. 


I never gat my coggie fou, 
Till I met wi' the ploughman. 

Up wi' him my ploughman lad, 

And hey my merry ploughman I 
Of a' the trades that I do ken, 
Commend me to the ploughman. 


Raving winds around her blowing, 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'd deploring — 
** Farewell hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow. 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow ! 




LI. 


II. 


LA.NDLADY, COUNT THE LAWIN. 

Tune— "//et/ tutti, taiti." 

[Of this song, the first and second verses are by Burns: 
»he CiOsing verse belongs to a strain threatening Britain 
»vith an invasion from the iron-handed Charles XII. of 
Sweden, to avenge his own wrongs and restore the line 
of the Stuarts.] 

I. 


*'0'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering ; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes. 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing, 
Load to misery most distressing. 
Gladly how would I resign thee. 
And to dark oblivion join thee I" 


Landlady, count the lawin, 
The day is near the dawin ; 
Ye're a' blind drunk, boys, 
And I'm but jolly fou, 
Hey tutti, taiti. 
How tutti, taiti— 
Wha's fou now ? 




LIII. 
HOW LONG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT 


II. 

Cog an' ye were ay fou. 
Cog an' ye were ay fou, 
I wad sit and sing to you 
If ye were ay fou. 


To a Gaelic air. 


[Composed for the Museum : the air of this aflectinff 
strain is true Highland : Burns, though not a musician 
had a fine natural taste in the matter of national melo 
dies.] 

I. 


III. 

"Weel may ye a' be ! 
Ill may we never see i 
God bless the king. 
And the companie! 
Hey tutti, taiti, 
How tutti, taiti — 


How long and dreary is the night 
When I am frae my dearie ! 

I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn, 
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 

I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn, 
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 

II. 


Wha's fou now ? 


When I think on the happy days 
I spent wi' you, my dearie. 

And now what lands between us lie 
How can I but be eerie ! 

And now what lands between us lie, 


LII. 


HAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. 


How can I be but eerie ! 


T jne — " Macgregor of Rura's Lament." 


III. 


[*' I composed these verses," says Burns, " on Miss 
■abell3 M'Leod, of Raza, alluding to h«*- feelings on the 


How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, 
As ye were wae and weary 1 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 229 


It was na sae ye glinted by, 


I. 


"When I was wi' my dearie. 


By Auchtertyre grows the aik. 


It was na sae ye glinted by, 


On Yarrow banks the birken shaw; 


When I was wi' my dearie. 


But Phemie was a bonnier lass 




Than braes of Yarrow ever saw. 


LIV. 


II. 

Her looks were like a flow'r in May, 


MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 


Her smile was like a simmer morn ; 


Tune — " Druimion dubh." 


She tripped by the banks of Ern, 




As light 's a bird upon a thorn. 


[The *ir of this song is from the Highlands : the verses 




n^ere written m comp.iment to the feelings of Mrs. 


III. 


M'liauchlan, whose husband was an officer serving in 




a-.e East Indies.! 


Her bonnie face it was as meek 


I. 


As ony lamb upon a lea ; 




The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet. 


Musing on the roaring ocean, 


As was the blink o' Phemie's ee 


Which divides my love and me ; 




Wearying heaven in warm devotion, 


IV. 


For his weal where'er he be. 


The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, 


II. 


And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; 


But Phemie was the blithest lass 


Hope and fear's alternate billow 


That ever trod the dewy green. 


Yielding late to nature's law, 


Blithe, blithe and merry was she, 


Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow 


Blithe was she but and ben : 


Talk of him that's far awa. 


Blithe by the banks of Ern 


III. 


And blithe in Glenturit glen 


Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 
Ye who never shed a tear, 






Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, 
Gaudy day to you is dear. 


LVI. 




THE BLUDE RED ROSE AT YULI 


IV. 


MAY BLAW. 


Gentle night, do thou befriend me ; 
Downy sleep, the curtain draw; 




Tune — " To daunton me." 


Spirits kind, again attend me. 


[The Jacobite strain of "To daunton me," must hav 


Talk of him that's far awa ! 


been in the mind of the poet when he wrote this pithj 




lyric for the Museum.] 

I. 
Thk blude red rose at Yule may blaw. 


LV. 




The simmer lilies bloom in snaw. 


BLITHE WAS SHE. 


The frost may freeze the deepest sea ; 


lune — ^' Andro and his cutty gun." 


But an auld man shall never daunton rae. 


fThe heroine of this song, Euphemia Murray, of Lin- 


To daunton me, and me so ycting. 


B )Be was justly called the " Flower of Strathmore :" 


Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue 


Ibe is now widow of Lord Methven, one of the Scottish 


That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; 


judges, and mother of a fine family. The song was 


For an auld man shall never daunton uie 


rriUei. at Ochtertyre, in June 1787.] 




CHORUS. 


11. 


Blithe, blithe and merry was she, 


For a' his meal and a' his maut, 


Blithe was she but and ben: 


For a' his fresh beef and his saut, 


Blithe by the banks of Ern, 


For a* his gold and white monie, 


And blithe i i Glenturit glen. 


An auld man shall never daunton i"0. 



zno 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



His gear may buy him kye and yowes, 
His gear may buy him glens and knowes ; 
But me he shall not buy nor fee, 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 

IV. 

He hirples twa fauld as he dow, 
WV his teethless gab and his auld held pow, 
And the rain rains down frae his red bleer'd 
That auld man shall never daunton me. 
To daunton me, and me sae young, 
Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue, 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; 
For an auld man shall never daunton me, 



LVII. 

CCME BOAT ME O'ER TO CHARLIE. 

Tune — " O^er the water to Charlie." 

[The second stanza of this song, and nearly all the 
third, are by Burns. Many songs, some of merit, on the 
game subject, and to the same air, were in other days 
current in Scotland.] 

I. 

Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er, 

Come boat me o'er to Charlie ; 
.'11 gie John Ross another bawbee. 
To boat me o'er to Charlie. 

We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, 

We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; 
Come weal, come woe, we'll gather ani go, 
And live or die wi' Charlie. 

II. 

I lo'e weel my Charlie's name, 

Tho' some there be abhor him : 
But 0, to see auld Nick gaun hame^ 

An- Charlie's faes before him! 



1 i?rear ai.d vow by moon and slars, 

And sun that shines so early, 
If I had twenty thousand lives, 
I'd die as aft for Charlie. 

We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, 

We'll o'er the water to Charlie; 
Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go. 
And live or die wi' Charlie ! 



LVTII. 

A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 

Tune—" The Rose-bud." 

[The " Rose-bud" of these sweet verses was MisI 
Jean Cruikshank, afterwards Mrs. Hehderson, daughtei 
cf William Cruikshank, of St. James's Square^ ripe of 
the masters of the High School of Edinburgh : sh» '9 
also the subject of a poem equally sweet.] 

I. 

A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 

All on a dewy morning. 
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled. 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 

It scents the early morning. 



Within the bush, her covert nest 

A little linnet fondly prest. 

The dew sat chilly on her breast 

Sae early in the morning. 
She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew*d, 

Awake the early morning. 



So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, 
On trembling string or vocal air. 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 

That tends thy early morning. 
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day. 
And bless the parent's evening ray 

That watch'd thy early morning. 



LIX 

RATTLIN', ROAR IN' WILLIE, 

Tune — '■*■ Rattlin\ roaring Willie." 

[" The hero of this chant," says Burns "wis ;?no 1 1 
the worthiest fellows in the world — William Dunbar, 
Esq., Writer to the Signet, Edinburgh, and Colonel o 
the Crochallan corps — a club of wits, who took that Utl4 
at the time of raising the fencible regiments."] 

I. 

rattlin', roarin' Willie, 

0, he held to the fair, 
An' for to sell his fiddle, 

An' buy some other ware , 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



23] 



But parting wi' his fiddle, 
The saut tear blint his ee ; 

And rattlin', roarin' Willie, 
Te're welcome hame to me I 



C Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

sell your fiddle sae fine ; 
Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

And buy a pint o' wine I 
If I should sell my fiddle, 

The warl' would think I was mad ; 
For mony a rantin' day 

My fiddle and I hae had. 



As I cam by Crochallan, ^ 

I cannily keekit ben — 
Rattlin', roarin' Willie 

Was sittin' at yon board en' ; 
Sitting at yon board en'. 

And amang good companie; 
Eattlin', roarin' Willie, 

^'e're welcome hame to me 1 



LX. 

PRAYING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS. 

fune — " Neil Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny." 

{^^ This song," says the poet, " I composed on one of 
'»he most accomplished of women, Miss Peggy Chalmers 
thai was, now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of Forbes and Co.'s 
r,»nk, Edinburgh." She now lives at Pau, in the south 
»f France.] 

I. 
Where, braving angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Ochels rise, 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes : 
As one who by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam, 
With art's most polish'd blaze. 



Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade. 

And blest the day and hour. 
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd, 

When first I felt their power ! 
The tyrant Death, with grim control. 

May seize my fleeting breath ; 
Rut tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



LXI. 

TIBBIE DUNBAR. 

Tnne—'' Johnny M'GilV 

[We owe the air of this song to one Johnny M'Gill, 
fiddler of Girvan, who bestowed his own uame on it : a^rf 
the song itself partly to Burns and partly to som* a« 
known minstrel. They are both in the Museum.] 

I. 
0, WILT thou go wi' me, 

Sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 
0, wilt thou go wi' me, 

Sweet Tibbie Dunbar? 
Wilt thou ride on a horse. 

Or be drawn in a car, 
Or walk by my side, 

0, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 



I care na thy daddie, 

Ilis lands and his money, 
I care na thy kindred, 

Sae high and sae lordly '■ 
But say thou wilt hae me 

For better for waur — 
And come in thy coatie. 

Sweet Tibbie Dunbar* 



LXII. 

STREAMS THAT GLIDE IN 
ORIENT PLAINS. 

Tune — '■'■ Morag.'''' 

[We owe these verses to the too brief visit which th« 
poet, in 1787, made to Gordon Castle : he was hurried 
away, much against his will, by his moody aau o'lstinaM 
friend William Nicol.j 



Streams that glide in orient plains. 
Never bound by winter's chains • 

Glowing here on golden sands. 
There commix'd with foulest stains 

From tyranny's empurpled bands ; 
These, their richly gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 

The banks by Castle-Gordon. 



Spicy forests, ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray, 
Hapless wretches sold to toil. 



232 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Or the ruthless native's ^ay, 

Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil : 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave, 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms by Castle-Gordon. 

III. 
Wildly here without control, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 

In that sober pensive mood, 
Dearest to the feeling soul, 

She plants the forest, pours the flood ; 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave, 
And find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 
By bounie Castle-Gordon. 



LXIII. 

MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAT. 

Tune — ^'■Highlander's Lament." 

[" The chorus," says Burns, '* I picked up from an old 
l^oman in Dumblane : the rest of the song is mine." He 
lomposed it for Johnson : the tone is Jacobitical.J 



My Harry was a gallant gay, 

Fu' stately strode he on the plain: 

But now he's banish'd far away, 
I'll never see him back again. 

for him back again ! 

for him back again ! 

1 wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land 

For Highland Harry back again. 

II. 

When a' the lave gae to their bed, 

I wander dowie up the glen ; 
I set me down and greet my fill, 

And ay I wish him back again. 



(vere some villains hangit high, 
And ilka body had their ain ! 

Then I might see the joyfu' sight, 
."Vly Highland Harry back again. 

for him back again ! 

for him back again ! 

1 wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land 

For Highland Harry back again. 



Tune- 



LXIV. 

THE TAILOR. 

The Tailor fell thro' the bedy thimblet 
an' a'." 



[The second and fourth verses are by Buri)9, the i0tf 
is very old, the air is also veiy old, and ia piayed at trade 
festivals and processions by the Corpo •• ti'-^ of Taiiori ] 



The Tailor fell thro' the bed, tbimbles an' a*, 
The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a' ; 
Tne blankets were thin, and che sheets they 

were sma', 
The Tailor fell thro' the bed, tnimbles an' a' 



The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill. 
The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill ; 
The weather was cauld, and the lassie lay still. 
She thought that a tailor could do her nae ill. 



Gie me the groat again, canny young man ; 
Gie me the groat again, canny young man ; 
The day it is short, and the night it is lang, 
The dearest siller that ever I wan ! 



There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane ; 
There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane ; 
There's some that are dowie, I trow would be 

fain 
To see the bit tailor come skippin' again. 



LXV. 

SIMMER'S A PLEASANT TIME. 

Tune — "-4y waukin o'." 

[Tytlerand Ritsox unite in consider aig the airof thes* 
words as one of our most ancient melouies. The firsJ 
verse of the song is from the hand of Burns ; the rest ha«i 
the benefit of his emendations : it is to be found iv tlii 
Museum.] 

I. 

Simmer's a pleasant time, 
Flow'rs of ev'ry colour ; 
The water rins o'er the heugh. 
And I long for my true lover 
Ay waukin 0, 

Waukin still and wearie. 
^leep J can get nane 
For thinking on my dearie. 



OF flOBERT BURNS. 231 


II, 


the work of Burns, Every trade had, in other day», a« 


When I sleep I dream, 


air of its own, iind songs to conespond ; but toil and 


sweat came in harder measure, and drove melodies out 


When I wauk I'm eerie ; 


of working-men's heads.] 


Sleep I can get nane 




For thinking on my dearie. 


I. 




When rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 


III. 


To deck her gay green-spreading lowers, 


Laneiy night comes on, 


Then busy, busy are his hours — 


A the lave are sleeping ; 


The gard'ner wi' his paidie. 


1 think on my bonnie lad 


The crystal waters gently fa' ; 


And 1 bleer my een with greetin'. 


The merry birds are lovers a' ; 


Ay waukin 0, 


The scented breezes round him blaw— 


Waukin still and wearie : 


The gard'ner wi'-his paidie. 


Sleep I can get nane 




For thinking on my dearie. 


II. 




When purple morning starts the hare 
To steal upon her early fare. 




LXVI. 


Then thro' the dews he maun repair 


The gard'ner wi' his paidie. 


liEWARE 0' BONNIE ANN. 


When day, expiring in the west. 


Tune— «* Ye gallants bright." 


The curtain draws of nature's rest. 




He flies to her arms he lo'es best — 


[Burns wrote this song in honour of Ann Masterton, 


The gard'ner wi' his paidie. 


daughter of Allan Masterton, author of the air of Strath- 


, 


fcllan's Lament: she is now Mrs. Derbishire, and re- 




tidsi in London.] 




I. 

Ye gallants bright, I red ye right, 


LXVIII. 


Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 




fler comely face sae fu' o' grace, 


BLOOMING NELLY. 


Your heart she will trepan. 


Tune — ** On a hank of flowers.** 


Her een sae bright, like stars by night, 
Her skin is like the swan ; 




[One of the lyrics of Allan Ramsay's collection gesmi 
to have be*":; in the mind of Burns when he wrote tli:»; 


Sae jimply lac'd her genty waist, 


the words and air are in the Museum.] 


That sweetly ye might span. 


I. 


II. 


On a bank of flowers, in a summer day, 


V outh, grace, and love attendant move, 


For summer lightly drest, 


And pleasure leads the van: 


The youthful blooming Nelly lay. 


In a' their charms, and conquering arms, 


With love and sleep opprest , 


They wait on bonnie Ann. 


When Willie wand'ring thro' the wood. 


Th? captive bands may chain the hands. 


Who for her favour oft had sued. 


But love enslaves the man; 


He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blusb'a, 


Ye gallants braw, I red you a', 


And tremblea where he stood 


Beware o' bonnie Ann ! 


II. 




Her closed eyes like weapons sheath'd. 
Were seal'd in soft repose ; 




LXVTI. 


Her lips still as she fragrant breath'd. 


WHEN ROSY MAY. 


It richer dy'd the rose. 
The springing lilies sweetly prest. 


Tune — '* The gardener wV hii paidle." 


Wild — wanton, kiss'd her rival breast: 


[The nir of this song la pliyed annually at the proces- 


He gaz'd, he wish'd, he feai'd, he hlush'd 


fcoeof tlie Gardeners: the itie only is old ; the rest is 


His bosom ill at rest. 



kSi 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



III. 


keep their place : tlie title is old. Both wotcIb and au 


Her robes light waving in the breeze 


are in the Musical Museum.] 


Her tender limbs embrace ; 


I. 


Her lovely form, her native ease, 


My love she's but a lassie yet, 


All harmony and grace: 


My love she's but a lassie yet. 


Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 


We'll let her stand a year or twa, 


A faltering, ardent kiss he stole; 


She'll no be half so saucy yet. 


Fie gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 


I rue the day I sought her, ; 


And sigh'd his very soul. 


I rue the day I sought her, ; 


IV. 


Wha gets her needs na say he's woo'd. 


As flies the partridge from the brake, 


But he may say he's bought her, ! 


On fear-inspired wings, 




So Nelly, starting, half awake, 


II. 


Away affrighted springs : ' 


Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet ; 


But Willie follow'd, as he should. 


Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet j 


He overtook her in a wood; 


Gae seek for pleasure where ye will, 


He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid 


But here I never miss'd it yet. 


Forgiving all and good. 


We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; 




We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; 




The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, 




LXIX. 


An' could na preach for thinkin' o't. 


THE DAY RETURNS. 




Tmie—" Seventh of November." 




[The seventh of November was the anniversary of the 


LXXT. 


marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Riddel, of Friars-Carse, and 




these verses were composed in compliment to the day.] 


JAMIE, COME TRY ME. 


I. 


Tune — <* Jawiy, come try me." 


The day returns, my bosom burns. 






[Burns in these verses caught up the starting note o* 


The blissful day we twa did meet, 


an old song, of which little more than the starting «"ord« 


Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd. 


deserve to be remembered : the words and air are it tii , 


Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. 


Musical Museum.] 


Than a' the pride that loads the tide. 


CHORUS. 


And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 


Jamie, come try me, 


Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, 


Jamie, come try me ; 


Heaven gave me more— it made thee mine I 


If thou would win my love, 


II. 


Jamie, come try me. 


While day and night can bring delight^ 




Or nature aught of pleasure give. 


I. 


While joys above my mind can move, 


If thou should ask my love. 


For thee, and thee alone I live. 


Could I deny thee ? 


When that grim foe of life below, 


If thou would win my love. 


Comes in between to make us part. 


Jamie, come try me. 


The iron hand that breaks our band, 




It breaks my bliss— it breaks mj heart. 


II. 




If thou should kiss me, love, 




Wha could espy thee ? ' 


LXX. 


If thou wad be my love. 




Jamie, come try me. 


MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET. 


Jamie, come try me, 


Tune—" Lady Bandinscoth's ReelV 


Jamie, come try me; 


[These verses had their origin in an olden strain, 


If thou would win my love, 


•qually lively and less delicate : some of the old lines 


Jamie, come try ma 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



231 



LXXII. 

MY BONNIE MARY. 

'lufle--'' Go fetch to me a pint o' wine." 

Concerning this fine song, Burns in his notes snys, 
* This ai- 'B Osw?>l i ^ ; i,\e first half-stanza of tlie song is 
MA the .dk* is rniii-i.'- It is believed, "lowever, that the 
vi »3 A tht on^ is from his hand : in Hogg and Mother- 
^eli i sditioL of Burns, the starting lines are supplied 
.rem 'in olden strain : but some of the old strains in that 
woii are to be regarded with suspicion.] 

I. 
Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

Au' fill it in a silver tassic ; 
That I may drink, before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 



The trumpets sound, the banners fly. 

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
It's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — 

It'u leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 



Lxxin. 

THE LAZY MIST. 

Tune—" The lazy mist." 

lAi that Bums says about the authorship of The Lazy 
|l:«t, is, " This <»ong is mine." The a?', wrliich is by Os- 
wtui, together with the words, is in the Musical Muse- 
■a] 



Thi lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, 
Concealing the ccurse of the dark winding rill; 
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, ap- 

pe.iir ! 
As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year. 
Ihe forests are leafless, the meadows ore brown, 
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown: 
Apart let me wander, apart let mie muse, 
^cw quick Time is flying, how keen Fate pur- 

«ues ! 



How long have I liv'd, but how much liv'd ii 

vain! 
How little of life's scanty span may remain I 
What aspects, old Time, in his progress, bftl 

worn! 
What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn I 
How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'il' 
And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, 

how pain'd ! 
Life is not worth having with all it can give — 
For something beyond it poor man sure mosl 

live. 



LXXIV. 

THE CAPTAIN'S LADY. 
Tune — '* mount and go." 

[Part of this song belongs to an old maritime strain, 
with the same title : it was communicated, along with 
many other songs, made or amended by Burns, to tb« 
Musical Museum.] 

CHORUS. 

mount and go, 

Mount and make you ready ; 
mount and go. 

And be the Captain's Lady 



When the drums do beat. 
And the cannons rattle, 

Thou shall sit in state. 
And see thy love in battle. 



When the vanquish 'd foe 

Sues for peace and quiet. 
To the shades we'll go, 
And in love enjoy it. 
mount and go. 

Mount and make you ready j 
mount and go. 
And be the Captain's Lady. 



LXXV. 

OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW 

Tune — ** Miss Admiral GordorCs Strathspey." 

[Bums wrote this charming song in nonourof Jean Ai 
mour : he archly says in his notes. " P S. it was du'-iiu 



236 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Ihe hDtey-moon." Other versions are abroad ; this 
M from the manuscripts of the poet.] 



Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild-woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 



I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 

But minds me o' my Jean 

III. 

blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft 

Amang the leafy trees, 
Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale 

Bring hame the laden bees ; 
And bring the lassie back to me 

That's aye sae neat and clean ; 
Ae smile o' her wad banish care, 

Sae charming is my Jean. 



What sighs and vows amang the knowes 

Hae passed atween us twa ! 
How fond to meet, how wae to part. 

That night she gaed awa ! 
The powers aboon can only ken, 

To whom the heart is seen, 
That nane can be sae dear to me 

As ny sweet lovely Jean I 



LXXVI. 

FIRST WHEN MAGGY WAS MY 
CARE. 

Tune—*' Whistle o'er the lave 6't." 

[The air of this song was composed hy John Bruce, of 
•cmfries, w za lian • the words, though originating in an 



olden strain, are wholly by Burns, and right bitter oneg 
they are. The words and air are in the Museum.] 



First when Maggy was my care. 
Heaven, I thought, was in her air ; 
Now we're marriei — spier nae maiit- 

Whistle o'er tb^ lave o't. — 
Meg was meek, and Meg was mill. 
Bonnie Meg was nature's child ; 
Wiser men than me's beguil'd — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 

II. 
How we live, my Meg and me, 
How we love, and how we 'gree, 
I care na by how few may see ; 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
Wha I wish were maggot's meat. 
Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
I could write — but Meg maun see't - 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 



LXXVII. 
WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL. 

Tune — *'Jiy love is lost to me" 

[The poet welcomed with this exquisite song hu wift 
to Nithsdale : the air is one of Oswald's.] 

I. 

0, WERE I on Parnassus' hill ! 
Or had of Helicon my fill ; 
That I might catch poetic skill. 

To sing how dear I love thee. 
But Nith maun be my Muse's well ; 
My Muse maun be thy bonnie sel': 
On Corsincon I'll glow*r and spell. 

And write how dear 1 love thee. 



Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day 
I coudna sing, I coudna say. 

How much, how dear, I love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the green, 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish ten — 

By heaven and earth I lovt thee I 

III. 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame. 
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame , 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



*Z6' 



And aye I muse and sing thy name — 

I only live to love thee. 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
Till my last weary sand was run ; 
Till lhei» -and then I love thee. 



Lxxvni. 

THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY 

To a Gaelic Air. 

[" This air,' says Bums, " is claimed by Neil Gow, 
who calls it a Lament for his Brother. The first half- 
•tdnza of the song is old : the rest is mine." They are 
both in the Museum.] 

I. 

There's a youth in this city, 

It were a great pity 
*'hat he frae our lasses shou'd wander awa : 

For he's bonnie an' braw, 

Weel-favour'd an' a. 
And his hair has a natural buckle an' a'. 

His coat is the hue 

Of his bonnet sae blue ; 
His feck it is white as the new-driven snaw ; 

His hose they are blae, 

And his shoon like the slae, 
And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'. 



For beauty and fortune 

The laddie's been courtin' ; 
Weel-featured, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted and 
braw; 

But chiefly the siller, 

That gars him gang till her, 
The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'. 

There's Meg wi' the mailen 

That fain wad a haen him ; 
And Susie, whose daddy was laird o* the ha' ; 

There's lang-tocher'd Nancy 

Maisl fetters his fancy — 
But the laddie's dear sel' he lo'es dearest of a'. 



LXXIX. 
MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 
Tune — '^Faille na 



fThe words and the air are in the Museu a, to which 
itv were contributed hv p.i^« He pa-n^« i his notes 



on that collection, " The first half-stanza of this song it 
old; the rest mine." Of the old strain no one nas ra 
corded any remembrance.] 



My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is nO| 

here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe — 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth. ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 
The hills of the Highlands for ever t love. 



Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with 

snow; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below : 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods , 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not 

here. 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the 

deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe— 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 



LXXX. 

JOHN ANDERSON. 
Tune — *' John Anderson, my /o." 

[Soon after the death of Burns, the very handsotns 
Miscellanies of Brash and Reid, of Glasgow, contained 
what was called an improved John Anderson, from tht 
pen of the Ayrshire bard; but, save the seconi stanza. 
none of the new matter looked like his hand. 
"John Anderson, my jo, John, 
When nature first began 
To try her cannie hand, John, 
Her master-piece was man; 
And you amang them a', John^ 

Sae trig frae tap to toe, 
She proved to be nae journeywork, * 

John Anderson, my jo.] 

I. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent. 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
Bnt now your brow is held, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw : 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson, myjo. 



•»S8 ' THE POETICAL WORKS 


II. 


LXXXII. 


John Anderson, my jo, John, 




We clamb the bill thegither; 


CA' THE EWES. 


And mony a canty day, John, 


Tune—" Ca' the ewes to the inowta." 


We've had wi' ane anither : 




Now we maun totter down, John, 


[Most of this sweet pastoral is of other aays-. Uarai 


But hand in hand we'll go ; 


made several emendations, and added the concludiag 
verse. He afterwards, it will be observed, wrote fof 


Ajid sleep thegither at the foot, 


Thomson a second version of the subject and the air,] 


John Anderson, my jo. 






CHORUS. 




Ca' the ewes to the knowes 




Ca' them whare the heather grows, 


LXXXI. 


Ca' them whare the burnie rowes. 


OUR THRISSLES FLOURISHED 


My bonnie dearie ! 


FRESH AND FAIR. 


I. 


Tune—** Awa Whigs, awa.** 


As I gaed down the water-side, 


[Burns trimmed up this old Jacobite ditty for the Mn- 


There I met my shepherd lad. 


leum, and added some of the bitterest bits : the second 


He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, 


ad fourth vprses are wholly his.] 


An' he ca'd me his dearie 


CHORUS. 


II. 


Awa Whigs, awa ! 


Will ye gang down the water-side, 


Awa Whigs, awa ! 


And see the waves sae sweetly glides 


Ye're but a pack o' traitor lonmfl, 


Beneath the hazels spreading wide t 


Ye'U do nae good at a'. 


The moon it shines fu' clearly. 


I. 

Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair, 


III. 
I was bred up at nae sic school, 


And bonnie bloom'd our roses ; 


My shepherd lad, to play the fool. 


But Whigs came like a frost in June, 


And a' the day to sit in dool. 


And wither' d a' our posies. 


And naebody to see me. 


II. 


IV. 


Oar ancient crown's fa'n in the dust — 


Ye sail get gowns and ribbons meet, 


Deil blin' them wi' the stoure o't ; 


Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet. 


And write their names in his black beuk, 


And in ray arms ye'se lie and sleep. 


Wha gae the Whigs the power o't. 


And ye sail be my dearie. 


III. 


V. 


Our sad decay in Church and State 


If yell but stand to what ye've sai4 


Surpasses my descriving • 


Fse gang wi' you, my shepherd lad, 


The Whigs came o'er us for & curse, 


And ye may rowe me in your plaid, 


And we hae done wi' thriving- 


And I shall be your dearie. 


ly. 


VI. 


Grim vengeance lang ha's taen a nap, 


While waters wimple to the sea ; 


But we may see him wauken ; 


While day blinks in the lift sae hi* 


fjude help the day when royal heads 


*Till clay-cauld death sail blin' my # ^ 


Are hunted like a maukin. 


Ye sail be my dearie. 


Awa Whigs, awa ! 


Ca' the ewes to the knowes, 


Awa Whigs, awa ! 


Ca' them whare the heathen ^towB^ 


Ye're but a pack o' traitor lounR, 


Ca' them whare the burnie >;. wea. 


Ye'U do nae gude at a'. 


My bonnie dearie. 




_:---^^_^^/;^; 
^^^^^^-^^^r:^ 



JOHN AXDEUSON MY JOE. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



2"9 



LXXXIII. 

MERRY HAE 1 BEEN TEE THIN* A HECKLE. 

Tune — ^^ Lord Breadalhone^s March.*' 

[Part of this song is old : Sir Harris Nicolas eays it 
io«8 not appear to be in the Museum: let him look 
Bg-iic ] 

I. 

MERRY hae I been teethin' a heckle, 

And merry hae I been shapin' a spoon; 
merry hae I been cloutin a kettle, 

And kissin' my Katie when a' was done. 
a' the lang day T ca' at my hammer, 

An' a' the lang day I whistle and sing, 
A' the lang night I cuddle my kimmer, 

An' a' the lang night as happy's a king. 



Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins, 

0' marrying Bess to gie her a slave: 
Blest be the hour she cool'd in her linens, 

And blythe be the bird that sings on her grave. 
Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, 

An' come to my arms and kiss me again I 
Drunken or sol er, here's to thee, Katie ! 

And blest be the day I did it again. 



LXXXIV. 
THE BRAES 0' BALLOCHMYLE. 

Tune — " The Braes o' Ballochmyle" 

[Mary Whitefoord, eldest daughter of Sir John White- 
fiX'.'d. wax the heroine of this song : it v/aswntten when 
fci»t aEciont family left their ancient inheritance. It is in 
ts Museum, with an air by Allan Masterton.] 

The Catrme woods were yellow seen, 

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea, 
Kae lav'rock sang on hillock green. 

But nature sicken'd on the e'e. 
Ihro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, 
Ind ay the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the Braes o' Ballochmyle ! 



Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 
Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; 

7e birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers, 
Again ye'll *harm the vocal air. 



But here, alas ! for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile , 

Fareweel the bonuie banks of Ayr, 
Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle 



LXXXV. 

TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

Tune — ^^ Death of Captain Cook?'* 

[This sublime and affecting Ode was composed by 
Burns in one of his fits of melancholy, on the anniversary 
of Highland Mary's death. All the day he had been 
thoughtful, and at evening he went out, threw himself 
down by the side of one of his corn- ricks, and with hit 
eyes fixed on " a bright, particular star," was found by 
his wife, who with difficulty brought him in from the 
chill midnight air. The song was already composed, and 
he had only to commit it to paper. It first appeared Im 
the Museum.] 



Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray. 

That lov'st to greet the early morn. 
Again thou usherest in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast . 



That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallow'd grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love ! 
Eternity cannot efface 

Those records dear of transports past; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last I 



Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning greeo 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn, hoar, 

Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene ; 
The flow'rs sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray — 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 



Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes. 
And fondly broods with miser care 1 



240 



THE POETICAL WOKECS 



Time out th' impression stronger makes, 
A? streams their channels deeper wear. 

My Mary, dear departed shade ! 
Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 

Beest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 



LXXXVI. 
EPPIE ADAIR. 

Tune — ''My Eppie." 

['<This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "which has 
been ascribed to Burns by some of his editors, is in the 
Musical Museum without any name." It is partly an 
old strain,corrected by Burns : he communicated it to the 
Museum] 



An' ! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie ! 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair? 
By love, and by beauty, 
By law, and by duty, 
I swear to be true to 

My Eppie Adair I 



An' ! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie 1 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair ? 
A' pleasure exile me. 
Dishonour defile me. 
If e'er I beguile thee. 

My Eppie Adair ! 



Lxxxvn. 



THE BATTLE OF S HEBIFF-MUIR. 

Tune — ** Cameronian Banf 

[Oae Barclay, a dissenting clergyman in Edinburgh, 
WTote a rhyming dialogue between two rustics, on the 
Dattle of Sheriff-muir : Burns was in nowise pleased with 
the way in wldch the reverend rhymer handled the 
Highland clans, and wrote this modified and improved 
version. 1 



♦' CAM ye here the fight to shun. 
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? 

Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, 
And did the battle see, man ?'' 



I saw the battle, sair and tough. 
And reekin' red ran mony a sheugh. 
My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough, 
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds, 
0* clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 



The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades, 

To meet them were na slaw, man ; 
They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'dj 

And mony a bouk did fa', man : 
The great Argyll led on his files, 
I wat they glanc'd for twenty miles : 
They hough'd the clans like nine-pin kyles, 
They hack'd and hash'd, while broad-swordl 

clash'd. 
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd, and smash'di 
'Till fey men died awa, man. 

III. 
But had you seen the philibegs. 

And skyrin tartan trews, man ; 
When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs 

And covPTiant true blues, man ; 
In lines extenried lang and large. 
When bayonets opposed the targe. 
And thousands hasion'd to che charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath, 
Drew blades o' death, 'till, out o' breath, 

They fled like frighted doos, man. 

IV. 

" how deil, Tam, can that be true ? 

The chase gaed frae the north, man; 
I saw myself, they did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man; 
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, 
They took the brig wi' a' their might, 
And straught to Stirling winged their flipbt; 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ; 
And mony a huntit, poor red-coat. 

For fear amaist did swarf, man I" 



My sister Kate cam up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man ; 
She swore she saw some rebels run 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man : 
Their left-hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads had nae good-will 
That day their neebors' blood to spill ; 
For fear, by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose — they scar'd at blows. 

And so it goes, you see, man. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 241 


VI. 


Masterton and I agreed, each in our ovjrn way, to cele- 




brate the business." The Willie who made the browsl 


They've lost some gallant gentlemen. 


was, therefore, William Nicol ; the Allan who composed 


Amang the Highland clans, man I 


the air, Allan Masterton ; and he who wrote this choice»l 


I fear mj Lord Panmure is slain, 


of convivial songs, Robert Burns] 


Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man : 


I 


Now wad ye sing this double fight, 


Some fell for wrang, and some for right ; 


0, Willie iTew'd a peck o' maut. 


And mony bade the world guid-night ; 
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 
Uv red claymores, and muskets' knell, 


And Rob and Allan came to see : 


Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night 


Ye wad na find in Christendie. 


- 


We are na fou, we're no that fou, 


^'i' dying yell, the Tories fell, 
And Whigs to hell did flee, man. 




But just a drappie in our e'e ; 




The cock may craw, the day may daWj 




And aye we'll taste the barley bree. 
II. 


Lxxxvm. 




Here are we met, three merry boys. 


YOUNG JOCKEY. 


Three merry boys, I trow, are we : 


Tune — ** Young Jockey. ^^ 


And mony a night we've merry been, 


[With the PX?^tion of three or four lines, this song, 


And mony mae we hope to bo ! 


though markeu in the Museum as an old song with 




artditi. ns. ir rue w...r« of Burns. He often seems to have 


III. 


•at do^v^n to amend or modify old verses, and found it 


It is the moon— I ken her horn. 


aasie to make verses whoily new.] 






That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; 


I. 


She shines sae bright to wyle us hame. 


fouNQ Jockey was the blythest lad 


But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee ! 


In a' our town or here awa : 




Fu' blythe he whistled at the gaud, 


IV. 


Fu' lightly danced he in the ha'. 


Wha first shall rise to gang awa', 


He roosed my een, sae bonnie blue, 


A cuckold, coward loon is he I 


He roos'd my waist sae genty sma', 


Wha last beside his chair shall fa'. 


And ay my heart came to my mou' 


He is the king amang us three ! 


When ne'er a body heard or saw. 


We are na fou, we're no that fou. 




But just a drappie in our e'e ; 


II. 


The cock may craw, the day may da-w. 


My Jockey toils upon the plain, 


And aye we'll taste the barley bree 


Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw ; 




And o'er the lea I leuk fu' fain, 
When Jockey's owsen hameward ca . 






An' ay the night comes round again. 




When in his arms he takes me a'. 


XC. 


An' ay he vows he'll be my ain. 


WHAEE HAE YE BEEN. 


As lang's he has a breath to draw. 


Tun e — KilliecranMe. ' ' 




["This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " kd ir tl. 
Museum without Burns's name." It was co.Tipose 1 Uj 






Burns on the buttle of Killiecrankie, and sent in his owl 


LXXXIX. 


handwriting to Johnson: he puts it into the mouth o( % 


WILLIE BREW'D. 


Whig.] 


Tune — "■Willie hrew'dapeck o' mauV^ 


I. 




Whare hae ye been sae braw, lad? 


[The scene of this song is Laggan, in Nithsdale, a 


Whare hae ye been sae brankie, Ot 


■mall estate which Nicol bought by the advice of the 


poet. It vas composed in memory of the house-heating. 


0, whare hae ye been sae braw, lad? 


•*<V« had SL 7h a joyous meeting," says Bums, "thai 
16 


Cam ye by Killiecrankie, » 



242 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



An* ye had been whare I hae been, 
Ye "wad na been so cantie, ; 

An' ye had seen what I hae seen, 
On the braes o' Killiecrankie, 



] fought at land, I fought at sea; 

At hame I fought my auntie, ; 
But I met *he Devil an' Dundee, 

On the braes o' Killiecrankie, 0, 
The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr, 

An' Clavers got a clankie, ; 
Or I had fed on Athole gled, 

On the braes o' Killiecrankie, 0. 



XCI. 

I GAED A WAEFU' GATE YESTREEN. 

Air — " The blue-eyed lass.^' 

[This hlue-eyed lass was Jean Jeffery, daughter to the 
Bk-inister of Lochmaben : she was tlien a rosy girl of 
leventeen, with winning manners and laughing blue eyes. 
She is now Mrs. Renwick, and lives in New York.] 

I. 

I aAED a waefu' gate yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll dearlie rue ; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; 

Her lips, like roses, wat wi' dew, 
Her heaving bosom, lily-white — 

It was her een sae bonnie blue. 

II. 

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd ; 

She charm'd my soul — I wist na how : 
And ay the stound, the deadly wound, 

Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed; 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dofad 

To her twa een sae bonnie blue. 



XCII. 

THE BANKS OF NTTH 
Tun*; — '^ Robie donna Gorach.^^ 

[The command which tne Comyns heW on the Nith 
ira.8 lo^t to the Doug.asBes : tJio Nithsdale power, on the 
lownfall of tb't ^rouii nara*i, wai» divided; part went to 



the Charteris's and the better portion to the Masvrells: 
the Johnstones afterwards came m for a share, and no^ 
the Scotts prevail.] 



The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 

Where royal cities stately stand ; 
But sweeter flows the Nith, to me, 

Where Comyns ance had high comma»<^ 
When shall I see that honour'd land, 

That winding stream I love so dear 1 
Must wayward Fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here ? 



How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales. 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom J 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales. 

Where lambkins wanton thro' the brQom • 
The' wandering, now, must be my doom, 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braea, 
Hay there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! - 



XCIII. 
MY HEART IS A-BREAKING, DEAR TITTlH. 

Tune—** Tarn Glen." 

[Tam Glen is the title of an old Scottish song, and o.dei 
air: of the former all that remains is a portion of th« 
chorus. Burns when he wrote it sent it to the Museum 3 

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie \ 
Some counsel unto me come len', 

To anger them a' is a pity, 
But what will I do wi' Tam Glen ? 



I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow, 
In poortith I might make a fen' ; 

What care I in riches to wallow, 
If I maunna marry Tam Glen ? 

III. 
There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, 

*♦ Gude day to you, brute !" he comes ben 
He brags and he blaws o' his siller. 

But when will he dance like Tam Glon ? 



My minnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware o' young men' 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me, 
But wha cai think so o' Tam Glen ? 



OF ROBERT BURNS. *243 


V. 

My daddie sayp, gin I'll forsake him, 


xcv. 


He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten: 


SWEET CLOSES THE EVENING, 


ftut if it's ordain'd I maun take Mm, 
wha mil I get but Tam Glen? 


Tune — " Craiffie-burn-wood.'* 


^ 


[This is one of severa. fine songs in honour c Jeae 


VI. 


Lorimer, of Kemmis-hall, Kirkmahoe, who for sonuP 


feprreen at the Valentine's dealing. 
My heart t: my mou' gied a sten ; 


time Jived on the banks of Craigie-burn, near Moffat. 


was composed in aid of the eloquence of a Mr. Gi.-:efri» 
who was in love with her : but it did not prevaJI, iX** 


F-)r thrice I drew ane without failing, 


she married an officer of the name of Whelpdi.e, lived 


4 ad thrice it was written— Tam Glen. 


with him for a month or so : reasons arose on both sides 




which rendered separation necessary; she then took up 


VII. 


her residence in Dumfries, where she had many oppor 


The last Halloween I was waukin 


tunities of seeing the poet. She Uved till lately.] 


My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 


CHORUS. 


His likeness cam up the house staukin. 


Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie. 


A.n9 <he very grey breeks o' Tam Glen I 


And 0, to be lying beyond thee ; 


VIII. 

Come counsel, dear Tittie ! don't tarry — 


sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep 


That's laid in the bed beyond thee ! 


I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, 


I. 


Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad that I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 


Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn-wood) 


And blithely awaukens the morrow; 




But the pride of the spring in the (jraigie-burii 




wood 




Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. 


XCIV. 


II. 


rKAE THE FRIENDS AM) LAND I LOVE. 


I see the spreading leaves and flowers. 


Air—" Carron Side.'' 


I hear the wild birds singing ; 




But pleasure they hae nane for me, 


Liiurns says, " I added t' a four last lines, by way of 


While care my heart is wringing. 


iviug a turn to the theme of the poem, such as it is. ' 




The vest of tli* song is supposed to be from the same 


III. 


laod : the lines are not to be found in earlier collections,] 






I canna tell, I maunna tell. 


I. 


I darena for your anger ; 


Feae the friends and land I love, 


But secret love will break my heart, 


Driv'n by fortune's felly spite, 


If I conceal it langer. 


Frae my best belov'd I rove, 




Never mair to taste delight ; 


IV. 


Never mair maun hope to find, 


I see thee gracefu', straight, and tall, 


Ease frae toil, relief frae care : 


I see thee sweet and bonnie ; 


When remembrance wracks the mind, 


But oh ! what will my torments be, 


Pleasures but unveil despair. 


If thou refuse thy Johnnie ! 


11. 

Brightest climes shall mirk appear, 


V. 

To see thee in anither's arms. 


Desert ilka blooming shore. 


In love to lie and languish. 


Till the Fates, nae mair severe, 


'Twad be my dead, that will be seen, 


Friendship, love, and peace restore ; 


My heart wad burst wi' anguish 


Till Revenge, wi' laurell'd head, 




Bring our banish'd hame again ; 


VI. 


\nd ilka loyal bonnie lad 


But, Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine. 


Cross the seas and win his ain. 


Say thou lo'es nane before me : 



244 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



and a' my days o' life to come 
I'll gratefully adore thee. 

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie. 

And 0, to be lying beyond thee ; 
sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep 
That's laid in the bed beyond thee ! 



XCVl. 

COCK UP YOUR BEAVER. 

Tune — " Cock up your beaver.^* 

['< Printed," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "in the Musical 
Museum, but not with Burns's name." It is an old song, 
weed out and amended by the poet : all the last verse, 
gave the last line, is his; several of the lines too of the 
first verse, have felt his amending hand ; he communi* 
"ated it to the Museum.] 

I. 

When first my brave Johnnie lad 

Came to this town, 
He had a blue bonnet 

That wanted the crown ; 
But now he has gotten 

A hat and a feather, — 
Hey, brave Johnnie lad. 

Cock up your beaver ! 



Cock up your beaver, 

And cock it fu' sprush, 
We'll over the border 

And gie them a brush i 
There's somebody there 

We'll teach better behaviour- 
Hey, brave Johnnie lad, 

Cock up your beaver ! 



XCVII. 

MEIKLE THINKS MY LUVE. 

Tune — '^ My tocher's thejeweV^ 

[These verses were written by Burns for the Museum, 
fcO an air by Oswald : but he wished them to be sung to 
% cune cabled "Lord Elcho's favourite," of which he 
was an adn.irer.] 

I. 

MKiKLB thinks my luve o' my beauty, 
And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin; 

P\it little thinks my luve I ken brawlie 
My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 



It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree; 

It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the be© ; 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller. 

He canna hae luve to spare for me. 



Your proffer o' luve's an airl-penny. 

My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin', 

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. 
Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, 

Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten tree , 
Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread. 

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me 



XCVIII. 

GANE IS THE DAT. 

Tune — " Gudewife count the lawin" 

[The air as well as words of this song were furnisfcie^ 
to the Museum by Burns. " The chorus," he says, " ll 
part of an old song."] 

I. 
Gane is the day, and mirk's the night. 
But we'll ne'er stray for fau't o' light. 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon. 
And blude-red wine's the rising sun. 
Then gudewife count the lawin. 

The lawin, the lawin ; 
Then gudewife count the lawin. 
And bring a coggie mair ! 

II. 
There's wealth and ease for gentlemen. 
And simple folk maun fight and fen ; 
But here we're a' in ae accord. 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 



My coggie is a haly pool, 
That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 
And pleasure is a wanton trout, 
An' ye drink but deep ye'll find him ciut. 
Then gudewife count the lawin ; 

The lawin, the lawin, 
Then gudewife count the lawin, 
And bring a coggie mair ! 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



241 



XCIX. 
THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE. 

Time — ^^ There are few gude fellows when Willie* s 
awa.'* 

[The bard was in one of his Jacobitical moods when 
LjB wrote this song. The air is a well known one, called 
•< There's few gude fellows when Willie's awa." But 
»f the old wo.ds none, it is supposed, are preserved.] 



Hi yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 

[ heard a man sing, though his head it was 

gray ; 
And as he was singing the tears down came, 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
The church is in ruins, the state is in jars ; 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars ; 
We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to 

blame, 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame ! 



My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I greet round their green beds in the 

yerd. 
It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld 

dame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
Now life is a burthen that bows me down, 
Bince I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moments my words are the 

game — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hanre ! 



C. 



HOW CAN I BE BLYTHE AND GLAD? 

Tune — '■^The bonnie lad thafs far au^.** 

[This iarne'^tatinn was written, it is rsjl in allusion 
po the 8' Jerings of Jean Armour, when hftr correspond- 
»rc« with Bu*^* was discovered by hei family.] 



HOW can I be blythe anrl ^lad, 
Or how can I gang brie^ and braw^ 

fVhen the bonnie lad tho-t I lo'e best 
Is o'er the hills and fs>r awa? 

When the bonnie lad faat I lo'e best 
Is o'er the hills aa'J far awa. 



It's no the frosty winter -vrind, 

It'! nc tb« Ori^njr drift and snaw; 



But ay the tear comes in mj e'e, 
To think on him that's far awa. 

But ay the tear comes in my e'e, 
To think on him that's far awa. 



My father pat me frae his door, 
' My friends they hae disown'd me 
But I hae ane will tak' my pirt^ 

The bonnie lad that's far awa. 
But I hae ane will tak' my part, 

The bonnie lad that's far awa. 



A pair o' gloves he gae to me. 

And silken snoods he gae me twa ; 

And I will wear them for his sake, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

And I will wear them for his sake, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa 



weary Winter soon will pass. 

And spring will deed the birken sh&' 

And my young babie will be born, 
And he'll be hame that's far awa. 

And my young babie will be born, 
And he'll be hame that's far awa. 



CI. 

I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR. 

Tune — **/c?o confess thou art saefair." 

["I do think," says Burns, in allusion to this son^ 
" that I have improved the simplicity of the sentimentt 
by giving them a Scottish dress." The original song ii 
of ereat elegance and beauty : it was written by Si! 
Robert Ayt jud secretary tc Anne of Denjcark, Queea 
of James I.] 

I 
I DO confess "thou art sae fair, 

I wad been o'er the lugs in love 
Had I na found the slightest prayer 

That lips could speak thj^ heart could Uttft 
I do confess thee sweet, but find 

Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets, 
Thy favours are the silly wind. 

That kisses ilka thing it meets. 



See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, 
Amang its native briers «;ie coy, 



246 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



How sune it tines its scent and hue 

When pou'd and worn a common toy ! 
Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide, 

Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile ; 
•^et sune thou shalt be thrown aside 
Like ony common weed and vile. 



CII. 

YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 
Tune — " Ton wild mossy mountains." 

[' Tnis son^ alludes to a part of my private history, 
R^hich it is of no consequence to the world to know." 
These nre the words of Burns : he sent the song to the 
iMusical Museum; the heroine is supposed to be the 
"Natrie," who dwelt near tlie Lugar.] 



Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, 
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the 

Clyde, 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the 

heather to feed, 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on 
his reed. 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the 

heather to feed. 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes 
on his reed. 



Not Gowrie's rich valleys, nor Forth's sunny 

shores, 
To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy 

moors ; 
r^r there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, 
Besides a sweet lassie, my thought and my 
dream. 
For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream. 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my 
dream. 



Aucang thae wild mountains shall still be my 

path, 
rils stream foaming dowi its ain green, narrow 

strath ; 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
tVhile o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' 

love. 
For there wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
AVhile o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' 

love. 



She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; 
0' nice education but sma' is her share ; 
Her parentage humble as humble can be; 
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me 

Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 

But I lo'e the dear lassie because she Wet 
me. 

V. 

To beauty what man but maun yield him 8 

prize, 
In her armour of glances, and blushes, an3 

sighs ? 
And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her 

darts. 
They dazzle our een as they flee to our hearts. 
And when wit and refinement hae polish'd 

her darts. 
They dazzle our een, as they flee to oui 
hearts. 



But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond spark- 
ling e'e, 
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me : 
And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in 

her arms, 
0, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms I 
And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in 

her arms, 
0, these are my lassie's all-conqnering 
charms ! 



cm. 

IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE 

Tune—" The Maid's Complaint." 

' [Bums found this song in English attire, bestotvri a 
Scottish dress upon it, and published it in the Museum 
together virith the air by Oswald, which iu one '^ hn 
best.j 

I. 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face. 

Nor shape that I admire, 
Altho' thy beauty and thy grace 

Might weel awake desire. 
Something in ilka part o' thee, 

To praise, to love, I find ; 
But dear as is thy form to mc, 

Still dearer is thy mind. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



247 



II. 




III. 


Nae mair ungen'rous wish I hae, 




Lanely nights come on. 


Nor stronger in my breast, 




A' the house are sleeping, 


Than, if X canca mak thee sae, 




I think on my bonnie lad. 


At least to see thee blest. 




An' I blear my een wi' grcetin' • 


Content am I, if heaven shall give 




Ay waukin, &c. 


But happiness to thee : 






A ad as wi' thee I'd wish to live, 






For thee I i bear to die. 








CVI. 




I MURDER HATE. 


CIV. 




"These verses are to be found in a volume whictt ma) 
be alluded to without being named, in which many o\ 


WHEN I THINK ON THE HAPPY DAYS. 


Burns's strains, some looser than these, are to be ^ouzid. 


[These verses were in latter years expanded by Burns 


I. 


Bto f> Bong, for the collection of Thomson : the song 


wi'-l 


I MURDER hate by field or flood. 


be found in its place : the variations are worthy of 


pre- 


jervatioE.J 




Tho' glory's name may screen us: 
In wars at hame I'll spend my blood. 


I. 




Life-giving wars of Venus. 


When I think en the happy days 






I spent wi' you, my dearie ; 




i^- 


And now what lands between us lie, 




The deities that I adore 


How can I be but eerie I 




Are social Peace and Plenty, 
I'm better pleas'd to make one more 


II. 




Than be the death of twenty. 


How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, 






As ye were wae and weary I 






It was na sae ye glinted by, 




When I was wi' my dearie. 




CVII. 




GUDE ALE COMES. 


CV. 




[These verses are in the Mueeum : the V Bt two f 






old, the concluding one is by Burns.] 


WHAN I SLEEP I DREAM. 




I. 


[Thle presents another version of song LXV. Varia- 


GUDE ale comes, and gude ale goes, 
Gude ale gars me sell my hose, 


|ion« are to a poet what changes are in the thoughts 


of a 


paint M; and speak of fertility of sentiment in both.] 








Sell my hose, and pawn my shocn, 


I. 




Gude ale keeps my heart abbon 


Whan 1 sleep I dream, 






Whan I wauk I'm eerie, 




n. 


gleer I canna get, 




I had sax cwsen in a pleugh, 


Fci thinkin' o' my dearie. 




They drew a' weel eneugh, 

I sell'd them a' just ane by ane ; 


II. 




Gude ale keeps my heart aboou. 


Lanely night comes on, 






A' the house are sleeping. 




III. 


1 think on the bonnie lad 




Gude a.e hands me bare and busy, 


That has my heart a keeping. 




Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzii, 


Ay waukin 0, waukin ay and wearie, 




Stand i' the stool when I hae done, 


Sleep I canna get, for thinkin' o' 


my 


Gude ale keeps my heart aboou 


dfiarie. 




gude ale comeH, &c. 



248 THE POETICAL WORKS 


OVIII. 


III. 


ROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST. 


Wi' linked hands, we took the sands 




A-down yon winding river ; 


[This is an old chaunt, oit of which Burns brushed 


And, oh ! that hour and broouy bower, 


Bome Ijose expressions, added the third and fourth 


Can I forg->t it ever ? 


vecaes, and sent it to the Museum.] 


I. 

Robin shure in hairst, 
I shure wi' him, 






Fient a heuk had I, 




Yet I stack by him. 


ex. 


II. 


GUDEEN TO YOU, KIMMER. 


I gaed up to Dunse, 


[This song in other days was a controversial one, an« 


To warp a wab o' plaiden, 


contained some sarcastic allusions to Mother Rome an4 


At his daddie's yett, 


her brood of seven sacraments, five of whom were lUe 


Wha met me but Robin. 


gitimate. Burns changed the meaning, and published hi 




altered version in the Museum.] 


III. 


I. 


Was na Robin bauld, 


GuDEEN to you, Kimmer, 


Tho' I was a cotter, 


And how do ye do ? 


Blay'd me sic a trick, 


Hiccup, quo' Kimmer, 


And me the eller's dochter ? 


The better that I'm fou. 


Robin shure in hairst, &c. 


We're a' noddin, nid nid noddiu. 


IV. 


"We're a' noddin, at our house at hame 


Robin promis'd me 


II. 


A' my winter vittle ; 


Kate flits i' the neuk, 


Fient haet he had but three 


Suppin hen broo ; 
Deil tak Kate 


Goose feathers and a whittle. 


Robin shure in hairst, &c. 


An' she be na noddin too ' 




We're a' noddin, &c. 




III. 
How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, 




And how do ye fare ? 


CIX. 


A pint o' the best o't. 


BONNIE PEG. 


And twa pints mair. 




We're a' noddin, &c. 


[A fourth verse makes the moon a witness to the en- 




|earm®nts of these lovers; but that planet sees more in- 


IV. 


liecreet matters than it is right to describe.] 






How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, 


I. 


And how do ye thrive ; 


As I came in by our gate end, 


How many bairns hae ye ? 


As day was waxin' weary, 


Quo' Kimmer, I hae five. 


wha came tripping down the street, 


We're a' noddin, &c. 


But Bonnie Peg my dearie ! 


V. 


II. 


Are they a' Johnie's ? 


Her air sae sweet, and shape complete. 


Eh ; atweel no : 


Wi' nae proportion wanting ; 


Twa o' them were gotten 


The Queen of Love did never move 


When Johnie was awa. 


Wi' moti'on mair enchanting. 


We're a nodrlin, && 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 241* 


VI. 


II. 


Jats like milk, 


What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab 7 


And dogs like broo ; 


What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? 


Lads like lasses weel, 


She lets thee to wit, that she has thee forgot. 


And lasses lads too. 


And for ever disowns thee, her ain Jock Rab. 


We're a noddiu &o 


had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab ! 




had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M Nib! 




As light as the air, and fause as thou s fair, 


OXI. 


Thou's broken the heart o' thy ain Jock Rab. 


AH, CHLORIS, SINCE IT MAY NA BE. 
Tune — ^^ Major Graham.** 






[Sir Harris N olas found these lines on Chloris among 




ihe papers of Bu.'ns, and printed them in his late edition 


CXIII. 


vi the poet's works.] 


WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER-DOOR 


I. . 

Ah, Chloris, since it may na be, 
That thou of love wilt hear ; 

If from the lover thou maun flee, 
Tet let the friend be dear. 


Tune—" La^s an I come near thee.** 

[The " Auld man and the Widow," in Ramsay's sol 
lection is said, by Gilbert Burns, to have suggested ihji 
«ong to his brother: it first appeared in the Museura.l 

I. 


II. 


Wha is that at my bower-door ? 


Altho' I love my Chloris mair 


0, wha is it but Findlay ? 


Than ever tongue could tell ; 


Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here I — 


My passion I will ne'er declare, 


Indeed, maun I, quo' Findlay. 


I'll say, I wish thee well. 


What mak ye sae like a thief ? 




come and see, quo' Findlay ; 


III. 


Before the morn ye'll work mischief; 


Tho' a' my daily care thou art, 


Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 


And a' my nightly dream, 




I'll hide the struggle in my heart, 


II. 


' And say it is esteem. 


Gif I rise and let you in ? 




Let me in, quo' Findlay ; 




Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din ; 
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 




CXII. 


In my bower if you should siay ? 


SAW YE MY DEARIE. 


Let me stay, quo' Findlay , 
I fear ye'll bide till break o' day ; 


Tune — " Eppie Macnah.** 


Indeed will I, quo' Findlay, 


["Pabiiehed in the Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolag, 




« witiMit any name." Burns corrected some lines in the 


III. 


eld Bonff, which iiad more wit, he said, than decency, 
tnc added others, and sent his amended version to John- 
•oaj 


Here this night if ye remain; — 
I'll remain, quo' Findlay; 


I dread ye'll learn the gate again , 


C 8AV ye ray dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? 
saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? 
She's down in the yard, she's kissin' the laird, 
She winna come liame to her ain Jock Rab. 
come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab 1 


Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
What may pass within this bower,— 

Let it pass, quo' Findlay ; 
Ye maun conceal till your last 1 our 

Indeed will t, quo' Findlay ! 


comf thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab! 
Whate'er thou hast done, be it late, be it soon. 




, 


Thou's welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab. 





260 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



CXIV. 

WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE. 

Tune — " What can a young lassie do wi' an auld 
man." 

[In the old strain, which partly suggested this song, the 
kAroice threatens only to adorn her husband's brows: 
Burns prr)pos<»s a system of domestic annoyance to break 
r ii heart ] 



VThat can a young lassie, what shall a young 
lassie, 

What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? 
Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie 

To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! 
Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie 

To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' I 



He's always compleenin' frae mornin' to e'enin', 
He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang ; 

He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, 
0, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man I 

He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, 
0, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man 1 

III. 
He hums and he hankers, he frets and he 
cankers, 
I never can please him, do a* that I can ; 
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows: 

0, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! 

He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows: 

0, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! 



My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 
I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart- 
break him, 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new 
pan. 
Ill cross him and wrack him, until I heart- 
break htm, 
AEi then his auld brass will buy me a new 
pan. 



CXV. 

THE BONNIE WEE THING. 

Tune — '* Bonnie wee thing." 

["Composed," says the poet, "on my little idol, 
charming, lovely Davies."] 

I. 
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. 

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom. 

Lest my jewel I should tine. 
Wishfully I look and languish 

In that bonnie face o' thine ; 
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 

Lest my wee thing be na mine. 



Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty. 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom. 

Lest my jewel I should tine ' 



CXVI. 
THE TIT HER MORN. 

To a Highland Air. 

["The tune of this song," says Burns, "is ongmall 
from the Highlands. I have heard a Gaelic song to it, 
which was not by any means n lady's soflg." "It o**- 
curs," says Sir Harris Nicoins, " in the Museum, withovf 
the name of Burns." It was sent in the poet's . vra hand 
writing to Johnson, and is believed to be his con4ioaition.^ 



The tither morn. 
When I forlorn, 

Aneath an oak sat moaning, 
I did na trow 
I'd see my Jo, 

Beside me, gain the gloaming 
But he sae trig, 
Lap o'er the rig. 

And dawtingly did cheer me. 
When I, what reck, 
Did least expec'. 

To see my lad so near me. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 25j 


*— — j 

11. 


Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 


His ] onnet lie, 


Had we never lov'd sae blindly. 


A thought ajee, 


Never met — or never parted. 


Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'dme; 


We had ne'er been broken hearted. 


And I, I wat, 




Wi' fainness grat, 


III. 


While in his grips he press'd me. 


Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest . 


r>eil tak' the war! 


Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest « 


1 late and air 


Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 


Uae wisL'd since Jock departed; 


Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! 


But now as glad 


Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 


I'm wi' my lad, 


Ae farewell, alas ! for ever ! 


As -^hort syne broken-hearted. 


Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 


II. 


Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee I 


Fu' aft at e'en 
Wi' dancing keen, 






When a' were blythe and merry, 




I car'd na by, 


CXVIII. 


Sae sad was I 


LOVELY DAVIES. 


In absence o' my dearie. 




Tune — '■'■Miss Muir.''^ 


But praise be blest, 




My mind's at rest, 


[Written for the Museum, in honour of the witty, td 


I'm happy wi' my Johnny ; 


handsome, the lovely, and unfortunate Miss Davie* ' 


At kirk and fair. 


I 


I'se ay be there, 


HOW shall I, unskilfu', try 


And bp as canty's ony. 


The poet's occupation. 




The tunefu' powers, in happy hours. 
That whispers inspiration ? 






Even they maun dare an effort mair,* 


CXVII. 


Than aught they ever gave us, 


AE FOND KISS. 


Or they rehearse, in equal verse. 




The charms o' lovely Davies. 


Tune—" Rory DalVs PorV 


Each eye it cheers, when she appears. 


[Believed to relate to the poet's parting with Clarinda. 


Like Phoebus in the morning. 


^ Thtse exquisitely affecting stanzas," says Scott, <* con- 


When past the shower, and ev'rv flower 


lain tne essence of a tliousand love-tales." They are in 


The garden is adorning. 


Jhe Museum.] 


As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shoie, 


I. 


When winter-bound the wave is; 


Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 


Sae droops our heart when we maun part 


Ae fareweel, and then for ever! 


Frae charming lovely Davies. 


Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 




Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 


II. 


Who shall say that fortune grieves him 


Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lifl> 


WI lie the star of hope she leaves him ? 


That maks us mair than princes ; 


Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 


A scepter'd hand, a king's command, 


Dark despair around benights me. 


Is in her darting glances: 




The man in arms, 'gainst female chaima, 


II. 


Even he her willing slave is ; 


FU ne'er blame my partial fancy, 


He hugs his chain, and owns the rti^.i 


Naething could resist ray Nancy ; 


Of conquering, lovely Davios. 


But to see her, was to love her; 


My muse to dream of such a theme. 


LoT« but her, and love for ever. — 


Her feeble pow'rs surrender 



852 THE POETICAL WORKS 


The eagle's gaze alone surveys 


cxx. 


The sun's meridiau splendour: 


NAEBODY. 


1 wad in vain essay the strain, 




The deed too daring brave is ! 


Tune—*' Naehodyr 


rU drap the lyre, and mute admire 


[Burns had built his house at Ellisland, eoweo. his fin. 


The charms o' lovely Davies. 


crop, the woman he loved was at his side, and hope waa 




high ; no wonder that he indulged in this independesi 




strain.] 

I. 


■ 


CXIX. 


I HAE a wife o' my ain — 


THE WEARY FUND 0' TOW. 


I'll partake wi' naebody ; 




I'll tak cuckold frae nane. 


Tune — «« The weary Fund o' Tow." 


I'll gie cuckold to naebody. 


['Thit song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " is in the 


I hae a penny to spend. 


Musi^'al Museum ; but it is liot attributed to Burns. Mr. 


There — thanks to naebody ; 


Allan Cunningham does noi state upon what authority he 


I hae naething to lend, 


kas assigned it to Burns." The critical knight might 


I'll borrow frae naebody 


have, if he had pleased, stated similar objections to many 


rfogs winch he took without scruple from my edition, 




1'iiere they were claimed for Burns, for the first time, 


1 1. 


Bud on good authority. I, however, as it happens, did 


I am naebody's lord — 


not claim the song wholly for the poet : I said " the 


1^11 be slave to naebody ; 


idea of the song is old, and perhaps some of the word*." 


I hae a guid braid sword, 


It was sent by Burns to the Museum, and in his ownhand- 
nrriting.J 


I'll tak dunts frae naebody. 




I'll be merry and free. 


I. 


rii be sad for naebody ; 


The weary pund, the weary pund, 


Naebody cares for me. 


The weary pund o' tow : 


I'll care for naebody. 


I think my wife will end her life 




Before she spin her tow. 
I bought my wife a stane o* lint 






As gude as e'er did grow ; 


CXXI. 


And a' that she has made o' that, 


0, FOR ANE-AND-TWENTY, TAMI 


Is ae poor pund o' tow. 






Tune—" The Moudiewon. ' 


II. 

There sat a bottle in a bole, 


[In his memoranda on this song in the Museum, Bu.ui 
Bays simply, " This song is mme. ' The air for a century 


Beyont the ingle low, 


before had to bear the burthen of rexy ordinary words 1 


And ay she took the tither souk, 




To drouk the stowrie tow. 


CHORUS. 




An 0, for ane-and-twenty, Tam, 


III. 


An' hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam» 


Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame, 


I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang, 


Gae spin your tap o' tow ! 


An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tarn. 


She took the rock, and wi' a knock 




She brak it o'er my pow. 


I. 




They snool me sair, and baud me down, 


IV. 


And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ! 


it last her feet — -I sang to see't — 


But three short years will soon wheel roun' 


Qaed foremost o'er the kno^we ; 


And then comes ane-and-twenty, Tam. 


ind )r I wad anither jad, 




VA wallop in a tow. 


11. 


The weary pund, the weary pund, 


A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 


The weary pund o' tow ! 


Was left me by my auntie, Tam , 


I think my wife will end her life 


At kith or kin I need ua spier, 


Before sue spin her tow. 


An I saw ane-and-twenty, T&m, 



or KOEEET BURNS. 



25?k 



Tht \-'ll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 

Tlio' I mysel' hae plenty, Tarn ; 
But hear'st thou, .addie — there's my loof — 
I'm thine at ane-and-twenty. Tarn. 
An 0, tor ane-and-twenty, Tarn ! 

An hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tarn I 
ril learn mj kin a rattlin' sang, 
An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tarn. 



CXXII. 
KENMURE'S ON AND AW A. 

Tune — " Kenmure's on and awa, Willie." 

[The second and third, and concluding verses of this 
/acobite strain, were written by Burns : the whole was 
sent in his own handwriting to the Museum.] 

Kenmuke's on and awa, Willie ! 

Kenmure's on and awa ! 
And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord, 

That ever Galloway saw. 

II. 

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie ! 

Success to Kenmure's band ; 
There's no a heart that fears a Whig, 

Tluit rides by Kenmure's hand. 

III. 
Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie ' 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine ; 
There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude^ 

Nor yet o' Gordon's line. 

IV. 

Kenmure's lads are men, Willie ! 

Kenmure's lads are men ; 
Their hearts and swords are metal true — 

And that their faes shall ken. 



They'll lix^e or die wi' fame, Willie I 
They'll live or die wi' fame ; 

But so'-.n wi' sounding victorie. 
May Kenmure's lord come hame. 



Here's him that's far awa, Willie, 

Here's him that's far awa ; 
And here's the flower that I love best — 

The rose that's like the snaw ! 



CXXIIl. 

MY COLLIER LADDIE. 

Tune—" The Collier Laddie." 

[The Collier Laddie was communicated b\ Burns, ani 
in his handwriting, to the Museum : it is chiefly hiSOV^ 
composition, though coloured by an older strain.] 

I. 

Where live ye, my bonnie lass ? 

An' tell me what they ca' ye ; 
My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, 

And I follow the Collier Laddie. 
My name she says, is Mistress Jean, 

And I follow the Collier Laddie. 



See you not yon hills and dales, 
The sun shines on sae brawlie ! 

They a' are mine, and they shall be thine. 
Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 

They a' are mine, and they shall be thine, 
Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie 

III. 
Ye shall gang in gay attire, 

Weel buskit up sae gaudy ; 
And anc to wait on every hand, 

Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddi? 
And ane to wait on every hand, 

Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie 



The' ye had a' the sun shines on, 
And the enrth conceals sae lowly ; 

I wad turn my hack on you and it a' 
And embrace my ColUer Laddie. 

I wad turn my back on yoi^ and it a' 
And embrace my Collier Laddie. 



I can win my five pennies a d«».y, 
And spen't at night fu' brawlie ; 

And make my bed in the Collier'^ xx^^^ 
And lie down wi' my Collier Ladd'«, 

And make my bed in the Collier's noutL, 
And lie down wi' my Collier Laddi«j. 



Luve for luve is the bargain for me, 

Tho' the wee cot-house should haud me; 

And the world before me to win my bread, 
And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. 

And the world before me to win my breads 
And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. 



254 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



CXXIV. 

NITIISDALE'S WELCOME HAME. 

[These verses were written by Burns for the Museum: 
Bie Maxwells of Terreagles are the lineal descendants 
(»f the Earls of Nithsdale.] 

I. 

The noble Maxwells and their powers 

Are coming o'er the border, 
And they'll gae bigg Terreagle's towers, 

An' set them a' in order. 
And they declare Terreagles fair. 

For their abode they chuse it; 
There's no a heart in a' the land, 

Bat's lighter at the news o't. 



Tho' stars in skies may disappear, 

And angry tempests gather ; 
The happy hour may soon be near 

That brings us pleasant weather: 
The weary night o' care and grief 

May hae a joyful morrow ; 
So dawning day has brought relief— 

Fareweel our night o' sorrow I 



cxxv. 

AS I WAS A-WAND'RING. 

Tune — " Rinn Meudial mo Mhealladh." 

[7 <-e original song in the Gaelic language was trans- 
aUiu ior Burns by an Inverness-shire lady; he turned it 
jito .erse, and sent it to the Museum.] 



A-s I was a-wand'ring ae midsummer e'enin', 

The pipers and youngsters were making their 
game ; 
Amahg them I spied my faithless fause lover, 

Which bled a' the wound o' my dolour again. 
W ?el, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' 
him ; 

I may be distress'd, but I winna complain; 
\ Matter my fancy I may get anither, 

Mv i'cart it shall never be broken for ane. 



I could na get sleeping till dawin for greetin'. 
The tears trickled down like the hail and the 
rain : 

Bad I na got greeiln', my heart wad a broken, 
Fcr oh ! Inve forsaken's a tormenting pain. 



Although he has left me for greed o' the siller, 

I dinna envy him the gains he can win; 
I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my sorrow 

Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him. 
Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gM 
wi' him, 

I may be distress'd, but I winna cocaplain ; 
I flatter my fancy I may get anither, 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 



CXXVI. 

BESS AND HER SPXNNING-WHEEL. 

Tune — ** The sweet lass that lo'es me." 

[There are several variations of this song, but the. 
neither affect the sentiment, nor affoid matter for quota 
tion.] 

I. 

LEEZB me on my spinning-wheel, 
leeze me on the rock and reel ; 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en I 
I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun. 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal — 
leeze me on my spinning-wheel ! 

II. 

On ilka hand the burnies trot, 
And meet below my theekit cot ; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white, 
Across the pool their arms unite, 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
And little fishes' caller rest : 
The sun blinks kindly in the Mel', 
Where blithe I turn my spinning- whet 1 

III. 
On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And Echo cons the doolfu' tale , 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes. 
Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
The craik amang the clover hay. 
The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley, 
The swallow jinkin round my shiel. 
Amuse me at my spinning-wheel. 



Wi* sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 205 


wha wad leave this humble state, 


V. 


For a' the pride of a' the great ? 


The hawthorn I will pu' 


Amid their flaring, idle toys, 


Wi' its locks o' siller gnay, 


Amid tlieir cumbrous, dinsome joys, 


Where, like an aged man, 


Can they the peace and pleasure feel 


It stands at break of day. 


Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel ? 


But the songster's nest within the huah 




1 winna tak away — 
And a' to be a posie 






To my ain dear May. 


CXXVII. 




LUVE WILL VENTURE IN. 


VI. 




The woodbine I will pu' 


Tune—" The Posie." 




When the e'ening star is near, 


{'• The Posie is my composition," says Burns, in a let 


And the diamond drops o' dew 


tar to Thomson. " The air was taken uown from Mrs- 
Sv •■■ voice." It was first printed in the Museum.] 


Shall be her e'en sae clear ; 




The violet's for modesty. 


I. 


Which weel she fa's to wear, 


LUVE will venture in 


And a' to be a posie 


Where it daurna weel be seen '; 


To my ain dear May. 


luve will venture in 




Where wisdom ance has been. 


VII. 


But I will down yon river rove, 


I'll tie the posie round, 


Among the wood sae green — 


Wi' the silken band o' luve, 


And a' to pu' a posie 


And I'll place it in her breast. 


To my ain dear May. 


And I'll swear by a' above, 




That to my latest draught of life 


II. 


The band shall ne'er remove. 


The primrose I will pu', 


And this will be a posie 


The firstling o' the year. 


To my ain dear May. 


And I will pu' the pink, 




The emblem o' my dear, 
For she's the pink o' womankiml, 






And blooms without a peer— 


nXXYiU. 


And a' to be a posie 




'^0 my ain dear May. 


COUNTRY LASSIE. 


III. 


Tune—" The Country Lass." 


('11 pu' the budding rose, 


[A manuscript copy before me, in the poet's harrtWTi 


When Phoebus peeps in view, 


ting, presents two or three immaterial varidtions of thii 


For it's like a baumy kiss 


dramatic son/- \ 


0' her sweet bonnie mou' ; 


I. 


The hyacinth's for constancy. 


In simmer, when the hay was mawn, 


Wi' its unchanging blue — 


And corn wav'd green in ilka fields 


And a' to be a posie 


While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 


To my ain dear May. 


And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 




Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel. 


IV. 


Says— I'll be wed, come o't what will ; 


The lily it is pure. 


Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild — 


And the lily it is fair, 


0' guid advisement comes nae iIT 


And in her lovely bosom 




I'll place the lily there ; 


II. 


The daisy's for simplicity. 


It's ye hae wooers mony ane. 


And unaffected air — 


And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken ; 


\nd a' to be a posie 


Then wait a wee, and cannie wale. 


To my ain dear May. 


A routhie butt, a routhie ben: 



256 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 
Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 

Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen, 
It's plenty beets the luver's fire 

I II. 

for Johrie o' the Bussie-glen, 

I dinna care a single flie ; 
He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blithe's the blink o' Robie's e'e, 

And weel I wat he lo'es me dear : 
Ae blink o' him I wad nae gie 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. 



thoughtless lassie, life's a faught ; 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; 
But ay fu' han't is fechtin best, 

An hungry care's an unco care: 
But some will spend, and some will spare, 

An' wilfu' folk maun hae their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair. 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. 



0, gear will buy me rigs o' land, 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
But the tender heart o' leesome luve, 

The gowd and siller canna buy ; 
We may be poor — Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on; 
Content and luve brings peace and joy — 

What mai' hae queens upon a throne ? 



CXXIX. 

FAIR ELIZA. 

A Gaelic Air. 

he name of the heroine of this song was at first Ra- 
: but Johnson, the publisher, alarmed at admitting 
thing nev7 into verse, caused Eliza to be substituted ; 

VfA% a positive fraud; foi Rabina was a real lady, 

OYe,'y one, and tUza one of air.] 



Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blkik before we part, 
Rue on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart? 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza; 

If to love thy heart denies, 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise I 



Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for time wad gladly die ? 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe ; 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden. 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow 



Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride o' sunny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy. 

All beneath the simmer moon; 
Not the poet, in the moment 

Fancy lightens in his e'e, 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 

That thy presence gies to me. 



cxxx. 

YE JACOBITES BY NAME. 

Tune — " Ye Jacobites by name." 

["Ye Jacobites by name," appeared for the first tiiM 
mthe Museum: it was sent in the handwriting of Btuniji.] 



Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear ; 
Ye Jacobites by name. 

Your fautes I will proclaim. 

Your doctrines I maun blame- • 
You shall hear. 



What is right, and what is wrai^g, by th« law, by 
the law ? 
What is right and what is wr^ng, by the law ' 
What is right and what is wrang ? 
A short sword, and a lanjjr, 
A weak arm, and a Strang 
For to draw 



Whftt makes heroic strife, fam'd afar, fam'd 
afar ? 
What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar f 
What makes heroic strife ? 
To whet th' assassin's knife, 
Or hunt a parent's life 
Wi' bluidie war. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



257 



IV. 


CXXXII. 


fnen let your schemes alone, in the state, in 


THE BANKS 0' DOON. 


the state ; 




Then let your schemes alone in the state ; 


[second version.] 


Then let your schemes alone, 


Tnne— ''Caledonian Hunt's DelighV^ 


Adore the rising sun, 


[Burns injured somewhat the simplicity of the song by 


And leave a man undone 


adapting it to a new air, accidentally composed by aa 




amateur who was directed, if he desired to create a Scot" 


To his fate. 


tieh air, to keep his fingers to the black keys of the harp« 




Bichord and preserve rhythm.] 

I. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 






How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 


CXXXI. 


How can ye chant, ye little birds. 


THE BANKS OF DOON. 


And I sae weary, fu' o' care ! 




Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird. 


[first version.] 


That wantons thro' the flowering thorn r 


[ Vn A>" ihire legend eays the heroine of this affecting 


Thou minds me o' departed joys. 


■ong wat Miss Kennedy, of Dalgarrock, a young crea- 


Departed — never to return I 


mr«, ben ■stiful and accomplished, who fell a victim to 




»er love for her kinsman, McDoual, of Logan.] 


II. 




Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 


I. 


To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 


Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 


And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 


How can ye bloom sae fair ; 


And fondly sae did I o' mine. 


dow can ye chant, ye little birds, 


Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose. 


And I sap fu* o' care ! 


Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 




And my fause luver stole my rose, 


II. 


But, ah ! he left the thorn m' me. 


Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, 




That sings upon the bough ; 




Thou minds me o' the happy days 




When my fause love -vras true. 


: 


TII. 


cxxxn. 


Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, 


WILLIE WASTLE. 


That sings beside thy mate ; 


Tune— "7%6 eight men of 3Toidart.'' 


For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 




And wist na o' my fate. 


[The person who is raised to the disagreeable elevatioi 


of heroine of this song, was, it is said, a farmer's wife 0/ 




the old school of domestic care and uncleanness, wh« 


I V. 


lived nigh the poet, at Ellisland.] 


Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 




To see the woodbine twine, 


I. 


ind ilka bird sang o' its love ; 
And sae did T o' mine. 


Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 


The spot they call'd it Linkum-doddie, 




Willie was a wabster guid. 


V. 


Cou'd stown a clue wi' onie bodie ; 


\VV lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Frae aff its thorny tree ; 
And my fause luver staw the rose, 


He had a wife was dour and din, 


Tinkler Madgie was her mither ; 


Sic a wife as Willie had, 


But left the thorn wi' me. 


I wad nae gie a button for her 
II. 




She has an e'e — she has but ane, 




The cat has twa the very colour ! 



Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 

A clapper-tongue wad deave a miller : 

A whiskin' beard about her mou', 

Her nose and chin they threaten ither- 

8ic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad nae gie a button for her. 



She's bow hcugh'd, she's hem shinn'd, 

A limp in' leg a hand-breed shorter ; 
She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 

To balance fair in ilka quarter : 
She has a hump upon her breast, 

The twin o' that upon her shouther — 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad nae gie a button for her. 



Auld baudrans by the ingle sits. 

An' wi' her loof her face a-washin' ; 
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig. 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion. 
Her walie nieves like midden-creels, 

Her face wad fyle the Logan-Water — 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad nae gie a button for her. 



CXXXIV. 

LADY MARY ANN. 

Tune — " CraigtowrC s growing.^'* 

[The poet sent this sung to the Museum, in hia own 
Handwriting : yet pnrt of it is believed to be old ; how 
Uu^h cannot be well known, with such skill has he made 
Wi» interpolations and changes.] 



0, Lady Mary Ann 

Looks o'er the castle wa', 
She saw three bonnie boys 

Playing at the ba' ; 
The youngest he was 

The flower amang them a'- 
My bonnie laddie's young 

But he's growin' yet. 

11. 
father ! father ! 

An' ye think it fit, 
We'll send him a year 

To the college yet : 



We'll sew a green ribbon 
Round about his hat, 

And that will let them ken 
He's to marry yet. 

III. 

Lady Mary Ann 

Was a flower i' the dew, 
Sweet was its smell, 

And bonnie was its hue ; 
And the langer it blossom'd 

The sweeter it grew ; 
For the lily in the bud 

Will be bonnier yet. 



Young Charlie Cochran 

Was the sprout of an aik ; 
Bonnie and bloomin' 

And straught was its make : 
The sun took delight 

To shine for its sake, 
And it will be the brag 

0' the forest yet. 



The simmer is gane, 

When the leaves they were greei 
And the days are awa, 

That we hae seen ; 
But far better days 

I trust will come again, 
For my bonnie laddie's young, 

But he's growin' yet. 



cxxxv. 



SUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES IN A NATION 

Tune. — "^ parcel of rogues in a nation." 

[This song was written by Burns in a moment o< 
honest indignation at the northern scoundrels who sold tf 
those of the south the independence of Scotland, at thd 
time of the Uuion.] 



Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, 
Fareweel our ancient glory, 

Fareweel even to the Scottisn name, 
Sae fam'd in martial story. 

Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands, 
And Tweed rins to the ocean. 



To mark where England's province stands- 
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 

II. 
What force or guile could not subdue, 

Thro' many warlike ages, 
[3 wrought now by a coward few 

For hirelini traitor's wages. 
1 tie English steel we could disdain ; 

Secure in valour's station ; 
15ut English gold has been our bane — 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 



O would, or I had seen the day 

That treason thus could sell us, 
My auld gray head had lien in clay, 

Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace ! 
But pith and power, till my last hour, 

I'll mak' this declaration ; 
We're bought and sold for English gold — 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 



CXXXVI. 

THE CARLE OF KELLYBURN BRAES. 

Tune — " Kellyburn Braes." 

[Of this song Mrs. Burns said to Cromek, when running 
ler finger over tlie long list of lyrics which her husband 
tad written or aiuemled for the Museum, "Robert gae 
mis one a terrible brushing." A considerable portion of 
the old still remains.] 



There lived a carle on Kellyburn braes, 

(Hoy, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 
/Ind he had a wife was the plague 0' his days ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime. 

II. 
A 5 day as the carle gaed up the lang glen, 

(fley, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 
B i wet wi' the devil ; says, " How do yow fen ?" 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and me is in 
prime. 

Ill 
" r fe got a bad wife, sir ; that's a' my complaint; 

CHey-, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 
''or, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint; 
And the thyme it i? wither''!, and rue is in 
prin 3. " 



IV. 

"It's neither your stot nor your staig I shaL 
crave, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 
But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have, 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and ru© is in 
prime." 

V. 

"0 welcome, most kindly," the blythe ;arU 
said, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 
" But if ye can match her, ye're waur nor ye're 
ca'd. 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime." 

VI. 

The devil has got the auld wife on his back; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme)^ 
And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime. 

VII. 

He's carried her hame to his ain hasllan-door, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme)., 

Syne bade her gae in, for a b — h and a w — e, 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is ii> 
prime. 

vni. 
Then straight he makes fifty, the pick 0' hia 
band, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme). 
Turn out on her guard in the clap of a hand ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime. 

IX. 

The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wud ^ea« 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thjTae), 
"Whate'er she gat hands on cam near her nae 
mair ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is il 
prime. 

X. 

A reekit wee devil looks over the wa* ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyrae), 
"0, help, master, help, or she'll ruin us a*, 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime." 

XI. 

The devil he swore by the edge 0' his knife, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thymejk 



fe60 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



tie pitied the man that was tied to a wife ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime. 



The devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 

H« was not in wedlock, thank heav'n, but in hell ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime. 

XIII. 

Xhen Sat!in has travelled again wi' his pack ; 

(Hey, and the rue grow bonnie wi' thyme), 
knd to her auld husband he's carried her back; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime. 



»* I hae been a devil the feck o' my life ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 
But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime," 



CXXXVII. 

JOCKEY'S TA'EN ,THE PARTING KISS. 

Tune — '' Jockey's taHen the parting kiss." 

[Burns, when he sent this song to the Museum, said 
lothing of its origin: and he is silent about it in hig 
licmoranda.] 

I. 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss. 

O'er the mountains he is gane ; 
And with him is a' my bliss. 

Nought but griefs with me remain. 
Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 

Plashy sleets and beating rain ! 
Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 

Drifting o'er the frozen plain. 



When the shades of evening creep 

O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, 
Sound and safely may he sleep. 

Sweetly blithe his waukening be ! 
He will think on her he loves. 

Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 
F^r where'er he distant roves, 

Jockey's heart is stiU at hame. 



CXXXVIII. 

' LADY ONLIE. 

Tune—" The Ruffian's Rant." 

[Communicated to the Museum in the handwritU^ a 
Burns : part, but not much, is believed to be old.] 

I. 

A' THE lads o' Thornie-bank, 

When they gae to the shore o' Bucky, 
They'll step in an' tak' a pint 
Wi' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky ! 
Lady Onlie, honest Lucky ! 

Brews good ale at shore o' Bucky ; 
I wish her sale for her gude ale. 
The best on a' the shore o' Bucky, 

II. 

Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean, 

I wat she is a dainty chucky ; 

And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gleed 

Of Lady Onlie, honest Lucky ! 

Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 

Brews good ale at shore o' BucRy • 
I wish her sale for her gude ale. 
The best on a' the shore o' Bucky 



CXXXIX. 

THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT 

Tune — '* Captain CKean." 

[" Composed," says Burns to M'Murdo, " at the de«iT« 
of a friend who had an equal enthusiasm for the air and 
the subject." The friend alluded to is supposed to ba 
Robert C leghorn : he loved the air much, and he wai 
much of a Jacobite.] 

I. 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves re- 
turning, 
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' 
the vale ; 
The hawthorn trees blow in the (Kw of the 
morning, 
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green 
dale; 
But what can give pleasure, or what can seem 
fair. 
While the lingering moments are number'(J 
by care ? 
No flow'rs gaily springing, nor birds sweetly 
singing, 
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despaiv 



OF ROBERT BURNS 



126i 



The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice, 

A king and a father to place on his throne ? 
His right are these hills, and his right are these 
valleys, 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can 
find none ; 
But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, for- 
lorn ; 
My brave gallant friends ! 'tis your ruin I 
mourn ; 
Your deeds proved so loyal in hot-bloody trial — 
Alas ! I can make you no sweeter return f 



CXL. 

SONG OF DEATH. 

Air — " Oran an Aoig." 

[" I have just finished the following song," says Burns 
to Mrs. Dunlop, "which to a lady, the descendant of 
Wallace, and herself the mother of several soldiers, 
oeeds neither preface nor apology."] 
Scene — A field of battle. Time of the day, evening. The 

wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed 

to join in the following song : 

I. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and 
ye skies. 
Now gay with the bright setting sun ; 
Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender 
ties — 
Our race of existence is run I 



Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy 
foe! 

Go frighten the coward and slave ; 
Ho, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know, 

No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 



Thou tstrik'st the dull peasant — he sinks in the 
dark. 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
fhou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 



fri the field of proud honour — our swords in our 
hands, 

Our king and our country to save — 
Vhile victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

Oh' vhr vould not die with the brave* 



CXLI. 

FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON. 

TvixiQ—''Afton Water:' 

[The scenes on Afton Water are beautiful, and th« 
poet felt them, as well as the generous kindness of hit 
earliest patroness, Mrs. General Stewart, of Afton-Ic dg»j 
when he wrote this sweet pastoral.] 

I. 
Flow gently, sweet Afton ! among thy greeu 

• braes. 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy pr&ise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream — 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 



Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' thp 
glen ; * 

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den j 

Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming for- 
bear — 

I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 



How lofty, sweet Afton ! thy neighbouring hilU, 
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding 

rills ; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high. 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 



How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below. 
Where wild in the woodlands the primiosea 

blow! 
There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea. 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 



Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glideE, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides j 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave. 
As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy cka* 
wave. 

VI. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton ! among thy gt^ecv 

braes. 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my loysl 
My Mary s asleep by thy murmuring stream — 
Flow gently, sweet Afton! disturb not he* 

dream. 



262 THE POETICAL WORKS . 


CXLII. 


III. 


THE S^iiLIKG SPRING. 


We'll live a' our days. 




And them that come behin*, 


Tune—" The Bonnie BelV 


Let them do the like, 


['• Bonnie Beil," was first printed in ttie Museum : who 


And spend the gear they win. 


khe heroine was the poet has neglected to tell us, and it 


Hey, ca' thro', ca' ihro', 


» a pity] 


For we hae mickle ado, 


I. 


Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 


IfiE smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, 


For we hae mickle ado. 


And surly Winter grimly flies ; 
Now crystal clear are the failing waters, 






And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ; 


CXLIV. 


Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the 


morning, 


THE GALLANT WEAVER. 


The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; 


TxmQ—The Weavers' March.'' 


All creatures joy in the sun'a returning. 




And I rejoice in my bonnie Sell. 


[Sent by the poet to the Museum. Neither traditic* 


nor criticism has noticed it, but the song is popuiai 


II. 


among the lootns, in the west of Scotland] 


The flowery Spring leads sunny Sunimer, 


I. 


And yellow Autumn presscro near. 


Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 


Then in his turn comes gloomjf Winter, 


By mony a flow'r and spreading tree, 


Till smiling Spring again appear. 


There lives a lad, the lad for me, 


Thus Seasons dancing, life advancing. 


He is a gallant weaver. 


Old Time and Nature their changes tell, 


Oh, I had wooers aught or nine, 


But never ranging, still unchanging, 


They gied me rings and ribbons fine , 


I adore my bonnie Bell. 


And I was fear'd my heart would tine, 




And I gied it to the weaver. 

II. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band. 




CXLIII. 


To gie the lad that has the land ; 




But to my heart I'll add my hand. 
And gie it to the weaver. 


THE CARLES OF DYSART. 


Tune— "/% ca' thro\" 


While birds rejoice in leafy bowers, 


(Communicated to the Museum by Burns in his own 


While bees delight in op'ning flowers 


wna writing : part of it is his composition, and some be- 


While corn grows green in simmer showera. 


ieve the whole.] 


• I'll love my gallant weaver. 


I. 

Up wi' the carles o' Dysart, 
And the lads o' Buckhaven, 






And the kimmers o' Largo, 




And the lasses o' Leven. 


CXLV. 


Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro'. 


THE BAIRNS GAT OUi' . 


For we hae mickle ado ; 




Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 


Tune — " The deuks dang o'er my daddie.*^ 


For we hae mickle ado. 


[Burns found some of the sentiments and a few of lui 




words of this song in a strain, rather rough and homespun 


II. 


of Scotland's elder day. He communicated it to the M» 


We hae tales to tell, 


seum.] 


And we hae sangs to sing ; 


I. 


We hae pennies to spend. 
And we hae pints to bring. 


The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout. 


The deuks dang o'er my daddie, J 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



261 



The fien' -ma-care, quo' the feirrie auld wife, 

He was but a paidlin bod}^ ! 
Ke paidles out, an' he paidles in, 

An' he paidles late an' early, ! 
This seven lang years I hae lien by his side, 

An' he is but a fusionless carlie, 1 



O, hand your tongue, my feirrie auld wife, 

0, hand your tongue, now Nansie, 1 
Fre seen the day, and sae hae ye, 

Ye wadna been sae donsie, ! 
r^e seen the day ye butter'd my brose, 

And cuddled me late and early, 1 
But downa do's come o'er me now. 

And, oh I I feel it sairly, ! 



CXLVI. 
SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 

Tune — *^ She's fair and fause." 

[Ooa of the happiest as well as the most sarcastic of 
the songs of the North : the air is almost as happy as the 
words.] 

I. 

6he'p fair and fause that causes my smart, 

I lo'ed her meikle and lang; 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
A coof cam in wi' routh o' gear, 
And I hae tint my dearest dear ; 
But woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 

II. 

Whae'er ye Tie that woman love. 

To this be never blind, 
tfae ferlie 'tis tho' fijkle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind. 
wiraan, lovely woman fair ! 
A.n angel form's fa'n to thy share, 
Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair — 

I mean an angel mind. 



CXLVII. 

THE EXCISEMAN. 

Tune — The Deil cam'' fiddling through the iotcn.^ 

[Composed and sung by the poet at a festive meetiof o. 
the excisemen of the Dumfries district.] 

I. 

The deil cam' fiddling thrt *gh the town. 

And danced awa wi' the Exciseman, 
And ilka wife cries — " Auld Mahoun, 
I wish you luck o' the prize, man !' 
The deil's awa, the deil's awa, 

The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman ; 
He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa, 
He's danc'd awa wi' the Excisemap ' 



We'll mak our maut, we'll brew our drink, 
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man ; 

And mony braw thanks to the meikle black dei4 
That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 



There's threesome reels, there's foursome reel% 

There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 
But the ae best dance e'er cam to the land 
Was — the deil's awa wi' the Exciseman. 
The deil's awa, the deil's awa, 

The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman : 
He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa, 
He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 



CXLVIII. 



THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 

Tune — " Lass of Inverness" 

[As Burns passed slowly over the moor of Culloden 
in one of his Highland tours, ihe lament of the Lass of In 
verness, it is said, rose on his fancy : the first four linal 
are partly old.] 

r. 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; 
For e'en and morn, she cries, alas ! 

And ay the saut tear blin's her e'e: 
DrumoBsie moor — Drumossie day— 

A waefu' day it was to me ! 
For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear, and brethren three. 



*• 

264 THE POETICAL WORKS 


II. 


Dyvor, beggar loons to me — 


Their winding sheet the bluidy clay, 


I reign in Jeannie's bosom. 


Their graves are growing green to see: 




And by them lies the dearest lad 


11. 


That ever blest a woman's e'e ! 


Let her crown my love her law. 


Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 


And in her breast enthrone mo, 


A bl uidy mat trow thou be ; 


Kings and nations — swith, awa I 


Foi mony u neart thou hast made sair, 


Reif randies, I disown ye 1 


Ihat ne'er did wrong to thine or thee. 






CLI. 


CXLIX. 




A RED, RED ROSE. 


HAD I THE WYTE. 


Tune — Grahani's Strathspey." 


Tune — *• Had I the wyte she bade me.' 


[Some editors have pleased themselves with tracing 


[Burns in evoking this song out of the old verses dM 


the santiments of this song in certain street ballads : it 


not cast wholly out the spirit of ancient license in whlo\ 


resembles them as much as a sour sloe resembles a drop- 


our minstrels indulged. He sent it to the Museum.] 


fipe damson.] 


I. 


I. 

0, MY luve's like a red, red rose. 


Had I the wyte, had I the wyte, 


That's newly sprung in June : 


Had I the wyte she bade me ; 


0, my luve's like the melodie, 


She watch'd me by the hie-gate side, 


That^s sweetly play'd in tune. 


And up the loan she shaw'd me ; 




And when I wadna venture in, 


II. 


A coward loon she ca'd me ; 


As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, . 


Had kirk and state been in the gate. 


So deep in luve am I : 


I lighted when she bade me 


And I will luve thee still, my dear, 




'Till a' the seas gang dry. 


II. 




Sae ct'aftilie she took me ben. 


III. 


And bade me make nae clatter ; 


'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun : 


** For our ramgunshoch glum gudemaix 




Is out and owre the water:" 


I will luve thee still, my dear. 




While the sands o' life shall run. 


Whae'er shall say I wanted grace 




When I did kiss and dawte her, 


IV. 


Let him be planted in my place, 


And fare thee weel, my only luve ! 


Syne say I was the fautor. 


And fare thee weel a-while ! 




And I will come again, my luve. 


III. 


Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 


Could I for shame, could I for shame, 




Could I for shame refused her ? 




And wadna manhood been to blame, 
Had I unkindly used her ? 




CL. 


He claw'd her wi' the rippiin-kamc 


LOUIS, \^HAT RECK I BY THEE. 


And blue and bluidy bruised her ; 


Tune — " Louis, what reck I by thee." 


When sic a husband was frae hame, 


What wife but had excused her ? 


^The Jeannie of this very short, but very clever song, 




B Mrs. Burns. Her name has no chance of passing from 


IV. 


ke earth if impassioned verse can preserve it.] 


I dighted ay her een sae blue. 


I. 


And bann'd the cruel randy ; 


Louis, what reck I by thee. 


And weel I wat her willing mou'. 


Or Geerdie on his ocean ? 


Was e'en like sugar candy. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 260 


A gloamin-shot it was f wot, 


But now wi* sighs and starting tears, 


I lighted on the Monday ; 


He strays amang the woods and briers; 


But I cam through the Tysday's dew, 


Or in the glens and rocky caves 


To wanton Willie's brandy. 


His sad complaining dowie raves. 

II. 

I wha sae late did range and rove, 




CLII. 


And chang'd with every moon my love, 


COMING THROUGH THE RYE. 


I little thought the time was near, 


Tune — *' Coining throxigh the rye.^^ 


Repentance I should buy sae dear : 




The slighted maids my torment see^ 


[The poet in this song removed some of the coarse 


And laugh at a' the pangs I dree ; 


iJiaff, from the old chant, and fitted it for the Mueeum, 
• here it was first printed.] 


While she, my cruel, scornfu' f9,ir, 


I. 


Forbids me e'er to see ner mair 1 


Coming through the rye, poor Lody, 




Coming through the rye, 




She draiglet a' her petticoatie. 


CLIV. 


Coming through the rye. 




Jenny's a' wat, poor body, 


OUT OVER THE FORTH. 


Jenny's seldom dry ; 


Tune — '* Charlie Gordon's welcome hame." 


She draiglet a' her petticoatie. 




[In one of his letters to Cunningham, dated 11th Marct 


Coming through the rye. 


1791, Burns quoted the four last lines of this tender and 


II. 


gentle lyric, and inquires how he likes them.] 


Gin a body meet a body — 


I. 


Coming through the rye. 


Out over. the Forth I look to the north, 


Gin a body kiss a body — 


But what is the north and its Highlands to me 1 


Need a body cry ? 


The south nor the east gie ease to my breast. 


III. 


The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea. 


Gin a body meet a body 


II. 


Coming through the glen, 


But I look to the west, when I gae to rest. 


Gin a body kiss a body — 


That happy my dreams and my slumbers ma^ 


Need the world ken ? 


be; 


Jenny's a' wat, poor body ; 


For far in the west lives he I lo'e best. 


Jenny's seldom dry ; 


The lad that is dear to my babie and me. 


She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 




Coming through the rye. 








CLV. 


CLIII. 


THE LASS OF ECC LE Jj^ECH Alv 




Tnne—'' Jackg Latin. 


lOUKG JAMIE, PRIDE OF A' THE PLAIN. 






[Burns in one of his professional visits to £ sclarbe; an 


Tune—** The carlin o' the glen." 


was amused with a rough old district song, winch envu 




one sung : he rendered, at a leisure tnoinent, the lanpuaff 


l^ent to the Museum by Burns in his own handwriting : 


more delicate and the sentiments less wurci, ao't soBt A 


aart only is thought to be his.] 


to the Museum.] 


I. 
YouNO Jamie, pride of a' the plain, 


I. 

Gat ye me, gat ye me. 


Sac gallant and sae gay a swain; 


gat ye me wi' naething ? 


Thro' a' our lasses he did rove, 


Rock and reel, and spinnin' wheel. 


And reign'd resistless king of love : 


A mickle quarter basin 



i266 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



By 3 attour, my gutcher has 
A hich house and a laigh ane, 

A' for bye, my bonnie sel', 
The toss of Ecclcfechan. 



haud your tongue now, Luctie Laing, 

haud your tongue and jauner ; 
' held the gate till you I met, 

Syne I began to wander : 

1 tint my whistle and my sang, 

1 tint my peace and pleasure: 

I5ut your green graflf, now, Luckie Laing, 
Wad airt me to my treasure. 



CLVI. 

THE COOPER 0' CUDDIE. 

Tune — '■'• Bah at the howster." 

[The wit of this song is better than its delicacy : it is 
fluted in the Museum, with the name of Burns attached.] 

I. 

The cooper o' Cuddie cam' here awa, 
And ca'd the girrs out owre us a' — 
j^nd our gude-wife has gotten a ca' 

That anger'd the silly gude-man, 0. 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door ; 
Behind the door, behind the door; 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door, 

And cover him under a mawn, 0. 

II. 

He sought them out, he sought them in, 
Wi', deil hae her ! and, deil hae him ! 
But the body was sae doited and blin', 
He wist na where he was gaun, 0. 



They cooper'd at e'en, they cooper'd at morn, 
'Till our gude-man has gotten the scorn; 
On ilk^; brow she's planted a horn. 

An it wears that they shall stan', 0. 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door, 
Behind the door, behind the door; 
We'll hiie the cooper behind the door, 

And C( ver him under a mawn, 0. 



CLVII. 

SOMEBODY. 
Tune — ''For the sake of somebody." 

[Burns seems to have borrowed two or three liB«f v 
this lyric from Ramsay : he sent it to the Museum j 

I. 

My heart is sair — I dare na tell — 
My heart is sair for somebody ; 
I could wake a winter night 
For the sake o' somebody. 
Oh-hon 1 for somebody I 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I could range the world around. 
For the sake o' somebody I 

II. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

0, sweetly smile on somebody I 
Frae ilka danger keep him free. 
And send me safe my somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody I 
I wad do — what wad I not ? 
For the sake o' somebody I 



CLVIII. 
THECARDIN' O'T. 

Tune — " Salt-fish and dumplings J" 

[« This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " is in the Miu 
sical Museum, but not with Burns's name to it." It wa| 
given by Burns to Johnson in his own handwriting.] 

I. 

I COFT a stane o' haslock woo', 

To make a wat to Johnny o't ; 
For Johnny is my only jo, 
I lo'e him best of ony yet. 

The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't, 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't ; 
When ilka ell cost me a groat. 
The tailor staw the lynin o't. 

II. 

For though his locks be lyart gray, 
And tho' his brow be held aboon; 
Yet I hae seen him on a day. 
The pride of a' the parishen. 

The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't, 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't; 
When ilka ell cost me a groat, 
^ The tailor staw the lynin o't. 



UF KOBERT BURNS. 



261 



' — — 

CLIX. 

WHEN JANUAR' WIND. 

Tune — " Th^ Lass that made the bed for me." 


VIII. 

Her hair was like the links o' gowd. 

Her teeth were like the ivorie i 
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, 

The lass that made the led to me 


tBums f.ind an old, c.ever, but not very decorous 
Itrair recording an adventure wnich Charles the Second, 
while under Presbyterian rule in Seotand, had with a 
rour-g '•'dy of the house of Port Letham. and exercising 
lis tai'-'and skill upon it, produced the present — still to^ 
.V«« Bonj 'or the Maeeum.] 


IX. 

Her bosom was the driven snaw, 
Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see ; 

Her limbs the polish'd marble stane. 
The lass that made the bed to me- 


I. 
Then Januar' wind was blawing cauld, 

As to the north I took my way, 
The mirksome night did me enfauld, 

I knew na where to lodge till day. 


X. 

I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 
And ay she wist na what to say ; 

I laid her between me and the wa'— 
The lassie thought na lang till day. 


II. 

By my good luck a maid I met, 
Just in the middle o' my care ; 

And kindly she did me invite 
To walk into a chamber fair. 


XI. 

Upon the morrow when we rose, 
I thank'd her for her courtesie ; 

But aye she blush'd, and aye she sigh'J, 
And said, '* Alas ! ye've ruin'd me." 


III. 
I bow'd fu' low vnto this maid, 

And thank'd her for her courtesie ; 
I bow'd fu' low unto this maid. 

And bade her mak a bed to me 


XII. 

I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, 
While the tear stood twinklin' in her e'e , 

I said, " My lassie, dinna cry, 

For ye ay shall mak the bed to me." 


IV. 

She made *he bed baith large and wide, 
Wi' twa white hands she spread it down ; 

She put the cup to her rosy lips, 

And drank, "Young man, now sleep ye 


She took her mither's Holland sheets, 
And made them a' in sarks to me : 

Blythe and merry may she be. 

The lass that made the bed to me. 

XIV 


80un'." 

V. 

She snatch'd the candle in her hand, 

And frae my chamber went wi' speed ; 
But 3 oall'd her quickly back again 


The bonnie las? made the bed to me. 
The braw lass made the bed tc me : 

I'll ne'er forget till the day I die. 
The lass that made the bed to me 1 


1 : lay eome mair below my head. 




VI. 

A 3od she laid below my head, 
And served me wi' due respect ; 

liid to salute her wi' a kiss, 
I put my arms about her neck. 

VII. 


CLX. 
SAE FAR AW A. 

Tune—" Dalkeith Maiden Bridge.** 

[This song was sent to the Museum by Burns, ig an 
own handwriting.] 

I. 


** Ilaui aflFyour hands, young man," she says, 

"And dinna sae uncivil be: 
'f ye hae onio love for me, 

vrang na my virginitie '" 


0, SAD and heavy should I part. 
But for her sake sae far awa ; 

Unknowing what my way may th-^yart. 
My native land sae far awa 



268 ^ THE POETICAL \v ORES 


Thou that of a' things Maker art, 


*etter to Syme, " with my performance, I, in my firtt fef 


That form'd this fair sae far awa, 


Vour, thought of sending it to Mrs. Oswald." He a«t 


CWe body strength, then I'll ne'er start 


it to the Museum, perhaps also to the lady.] 


At this my way sae far awa. 


CHORUS. 




0, WAT ye wha's in yon town, 


II 


Ye see the e'enin sun upon ? 


Qow true is love to pure desert, 


The fairest dame's in yon town, 


So 1 jve to her, sae far awa : 


That e'enin sun is shining on. 


And nocht can heal my bosom's smart, 




While, oh ! she is sae far awa. 


I. 


Nane other love, nane other dart, 


Now haply down yon gay green shaw. 


I feel but hers, sae far awa ; 


She wanders ^y yon spreading tree ; 


But fairer never touch'd a heart 


How blest ye flcw'rs that round her blaw. 


Thau hers, the fair sae far awa. 


Ye catch the glances o' here'el 




II. 

How blest ye birds that round her sing, 


CLXI. 


And welcome in the blooming year ! 


I'LL AY CA' IN BY YON TOWN. 


And doubly welcome be the spring, 




The season to my Lucy dear. 


Tune — **7'ZZ gae nae mair to yon town." 




[Jean Armour inspired this very sweet song. Sir 


III. 


ffarris Nicolas says it is printed in Cromelt's Reliques : 


The sun blinks blithe on yon town. 


t waa first printed in the Museum.] 


And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ; 


I. 


But my delight in yon town. 


I'll ay ca' in by yon town. 


And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 


And by yon garden green, again ; 




I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 


IV. , 


And &ee my bonnie Jean again. 


Without my love, not a' the charms 


There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail guess. 


0' Paradise could yield me joy; 


What brings me back the gaXe again ; 


But gie me Lucy in my arms, 


But she my fairest faithfu' lass, 


And welcome Lapland's dreary sky 1 


And stownlins we sail meet again. 


V. 


II. 


My cave wad be a lover's bower. 


She'll wander by the aiken tree. 


Tho' raging winter rent the air ; 


When trystin-time draws near again ; 


And she a lovely little flower. 


And when her lovely form I see, 


That I wad tent and shelter there. 


haith, she's doubly dear again I 


VI. 


I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 


And by yon garden green, again ; 


sweet is she in yon town, 


rU ay ca' in by yon town. 


Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon ; 


And see my bonnie Jean again. 


A fairer than's in yon town 




His setting beam ne'er shone u; ^n. 


CLXII. 


VII. 

If angry fate is sworn my foe. 

And suflFering I am doom'd to bear; 


0, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN. 


I careless quit aught else below. 


Tune — " ril ay ca' in by yon town" 


But spare me — spare me, Lucy ia&r I 


[The beautiful Lucy Johnstone, married to Oswald, 


VIII. 


f Auchencruive, was the heroine of this song: it waa 
K)t, however, composed expressly in honour of her 




For while life's dearest blood is warm, 


tarms "A*" was a good deal pleased," he says in a 


Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart 



or E0T3EET BURNS. 



26« 



And sL*- as fairest is her form ! 
iShe hab tne truest, kindest heart I 
(), wat ye wha's in j jn town, 

Ye See the e'euin sun upon^ 
The fairesst dame's in yon t^wn 
That e'onin sun is shining on, 



MAY 

Tune—* 



CLXIII. 

THY MORN. 

♦ Ma-j, thy morn.^^ 



[Our lyricrvl legends assign the inspiration of this strain 
to the accoiniilished Clarinda. It has been omitted by 
'■Jl.ainL^rs in his " People's Edition" of Burns.] 



IJay, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet 

As the mirk night o' December ; 
For sparkling was the rosy wine, 

And private was the chamber: 
And dear was she I dare na name. 

But I will ay remember. 
And dear was she I dare na name, 

But I will ay remember. 



And here's to them, that, like oursel, 

Can push about the jorum ; 
And here's to them that wish us weel, 

May a' that's guid watch o'er them, 
And here's to them we dare na tell, 

The dearest o' the quorum. 
And here's to them we dare na tell, 

The dearest o' the quorum ! 



May he whose arms shall fauld thy charmi 

Possess a leal and true heart ; 
To him be given to ken the heaven 

He grasps in Polly Stewart. 
lovely Polly Stewart ! 

charming Polly Stewart! 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May 

That's half so sweet as thou art. 



CLXV. 



CLXIV. 

LOVELY POLLY STEWART. 

Tune — ** Ye're welcome, Charlie Stewart." 

I The poet's eye was on Polly Stewart, but his mind 
I«*mi to have been with Charlie t<tewart, and the Jacob- 
ite ba lads, when he penned these words ; — they are in 
t^« SiuEeura.] 

I. 
LOVELY Polly Stpvart ! 

'> charming Polly Stewart! 
There's not a flower that blooms in May 

That's half so fair as thou art. 
The flower it blaws, it fades and fa's, 

And art can ne'er renew it; 
But worth and truth eternal youth 

Vill give to Polly Stewart. 



THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. 

Tune — " If thou'lt play me fair play." 

[A long and wearisome ditty, called "The High aN 
Lad and Lowland Lassie," which Burns compressed '^JM 
these stanzas, for Johnson's Museun^ "• 

I. • 

The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, 
Wore a plaid, and was fu' braw, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
On his head a bonnet blue, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 
His royal heart was firm and true, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 



Trumpets sound, and cannons roar, 

Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie ; 
And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 
Glory, honour, now invite, 

Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie, 
For freedom and my king to fight, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 



The sun a backward course shall aki, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, 
Ere aught thy manly courage shake, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
Go, for yourself procure renown, 

Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie;. 
And for your lawful king, his cro-^a, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 



B70 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



CLXVI. 

ANNA, THY CHARMS. 

Tune — " Bonnie Mary." 

[The heroine of this short, sweet song is unknowx : it 
•ras iiiserted in the third edition of his Poems.] 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, 

And waste my soul with care ; 
But ah ! how bootless to admire, 

When fated to despair ! 
Tet in thy presence, lovely fair, 

To hope may be forgiv'n ; 
For sure 'twere impious to despair, 

So much in sight of Heav'n. 



CLXVn. 

CASSILLIS' BANKS. 

Tune — [unknown.] 

[It is supposed that "Highland Mary," who lived 
lometime on Cassillis's banks, is the heroine of these 
erses.] 

I. 

Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green, 

An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring ; 
By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream. 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's, 

There wi' my Mary let me flee. 
There catch her ilka glance of love. 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e ! 

II. 

The chield wha boasts o' warld's walth 

Is aften laird o' meikle care i 
But Mary she is a' my ain — 

Ah ! fortune canna gie me mair. 
Then let me range by Cassillis' banks, 

Wi her, the lassie dear to me. 
And catch her ilka glance o' love. 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e i 



CLXVIII. 

TOTHEE, LOVED NIT H. 

Tune — [unknown. ] 

[There are several variations extant of these 
Rd art rng of ers ore which transfers the praise from 



the Nith to the Dee : but to the Dee, if the pget spokl nl 
his own person, no such influences conld bei'-»ii4 1 



To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains. 
Where late wi' careless thought I rang'd, 

Though prest wi' care and sunk in woe, 
To thee I bring a heart unchang'd. 



I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear ; 

For there he rov'd that brake my heart. 
Yet to that heart, ah ! still how dear I 



CLXIX. 

BANNOCKS 0' BARLEY. 

Tune—" The Killogie." 

[" This song is in the Museum," says Sir Harris NicoIa% 
•' but without Burns's name." Burns took up an old song, 
and letting some of the old words stand, infused a Jacobite 
ppirit into it, wrote it out, and sent it to the Museum.] 

I. 
Bannocks o' bear meal. 

Bannocks o' barley; 
Here's to the Highlandman's 

Bannocks o' barley. 
Wha in a brulzie 

Will first cry a parley ? 
Never the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley. 



Bannocks o' bear meal, 

Bannocks o' barley ; 
Here's to the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley. 
Wha in his wae-days 

Were loyal to Charlie ? 
Wha but the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley f 



Tune- 



CLXX. 

HEE BALOU. 
-*' The Highland Balou. 



["Published in the Musical Museum," says Si" Haitll 
Nicolas, " but without the name of the a" 'hor." It in ai 



OF KOBEBT BURNS. 



27^ 



•Id ttmin, eked Jut and amended by Burns, and gent to 
lue Miseum in his owt. haud writing.] 



Hee balou ! my sweet wee Donald, 
Picture o' the great Clanronald ; 
Brawlie kens onr wanton chief 
Wha got my young Highland thief. 



Leeze me on thy bonnie craigie, 
An* thou live, thou'll steal a naigie i 
Travel the country thro' and thro', 
And brinji, hame a Carlisle cow. 



Thro' the Lawlands, o'er the border, 
Weel, my babie, may thou furder : 
Herrv the louus o' the laigh countree, 
S\ne to the Highlands hame to me. 



• CLXXI. 

WAE IS MY HEART. 

Tune — *' Waeis my heart J*^ 

iConcposed . it is said, at the request of Clarke, the 
musician, w^o felt, or imagined he felt, some pangs of 
heart for one of the loveliest young ladies in Nithsdale, 
Plullis M'Mnrdo.J 



Wae i*" vay ^eart, and the tear's in my e'e ; 
Lang, lany joy's been a stranger to me ; 
Forsaken and frienaless, my burden I bear, 
And the sweet voice of pity ne'er sounds in my 

ear. 

II. 
Love, thou hast pleasures, and deep hae I loved ; 
Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae I proved; 
Bt^ thi? bruised heart that now bleeds in my 

breast, 
r can fe*.] b^ its throbbings will soon be at rest. 



0, if I were happy, where happy I hae been, 
Down by yon stream, and yon bonnie castle 

green; 
For there he is wandring, and musing on me, 
VTha w*c? goon dry the tear frae his Phillis's e'e. 



CIXXIT. 

HERE'S HIS HEALTH IN WATER 

Tune — *' The job of journey-work." 

rBums took the hint of this song from an older and 1» 
decorous strain, and wrote these words, it has been saK,, 
in humorous allusion to the condition in which Jean Ar 
mour found herself before marriage ; as if Burns coa(d 
be capable of anything so insulting. The words arc « 
the Museum.] 

Altho' my back be at the wa', 

An' tho' he be the fautor ; 
Altho' my back be at the wa', 

Yet here's his health in water I 
! wae gae by his wanton sides, 

Sae brawlie he could flatter ; 
Till for his sake I'm slighted sair, 

And dree the kintra clatter. 
But tho' my back be at the wa', 

And tho' he be the fautor ; 
But tho' my back be at the wa'. 

Yet here's his health in water I 



CLXXIII. 



MY PEGGY'S FACE 

Tune — " Jfy Peggy's Face." 

[Composed in honour of Miss Margaret Chalmers, aft© 
wards Mrs, Lewis Hay, one of the wisest, and, it is said, 
the wittiest of all the poet's lady correspondents. Burns, 
in the note in which he communicated it to Johnson, said 
he had a strong private reason for wishing it to app«ai 
in the second volume of the Museum.] 



My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, 
The frost of hermit age might warm 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
Might charm the first of human kind. 
I love my Peggy's angel air, 
Her face so truly, heav'nly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art. 
But I adore my Peggy's heart 



The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
Who but owns their magic sway? 
Who but knows they all decay I 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
The gen'rous purpose, nobly dear, 
The gentle look, that rage disarms — 
These are all immortal charms. 



272 



THE POETICAL WOF.KS 



CLXXIV. 
GLOOMY DECEMBER. 

Tune — " Wandering Willie.'^ 

[These verses were, it is said, inspired by Clarinda, 
and mast be taken as i record of his feelings at parting 
?rith one dear to him to the latest moments of existence 
— thft Mrs. Mac of many a toast, botli in serious and fes- 
tive hours.] 

I. 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December 1 

Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care : 
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure, 

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour ; 
But the dire feeling, farewell for ever ! 

Is anguish unmingled, and agony pure. 



Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 

'Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, 
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, 

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone I 
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
For sad was the parting thou makes me remem- 
ber, 

1'arting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 



CLXXV. 

MY LADY'S GOWN, THERE'S GAIRS 
UPON'T. • 

Tune — " Gregg* s Pipes." 

[Most of tliis song is from the pen of Burns: he cor- 
ected the improprieties, and infused some of his ov«ni 
yric geni is into the old strain, and printed the result in 
fce Museum.] 



My lady's gown, there's gairs upont. 
And gowden flowers sae rare upon't; 
Bnt Jenny's jimps and jirkinet, 
My lord thinks meikle mair upon't. 
Mj lord a-hunting he is gane, 
But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane ; 
By Colin's cottage lies his game, 
If Colin's Jenny be at hame. 

II. 

My lad;«-'8 white, my lady's red. 
And kiA and kin o' Cassillis' blude; 



But her ten-pund lands o' tocher gtdd 
Were a' the charms his lordship lo'el. 

Ill 
Out o'er yon muir, out o er yon moss, 
Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather past 
There wons auld Colin's bonnie lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 

IV. 

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs. 
Like music notes o' lovers' hymns : 
The diamond dew is her een sae blue, 
Where laughing love sae wanton swiiuB 

V. 

My lady's dink, my lady's drest. 
The flower and fancy o' the west; 
But the lassie that a man lo'es best, 
that's the lass to make him blest. 
My lady'.s gown, there's gairs upon't, 
And gowden flowers sae rare upon't; 
But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet, 
My lord thinks meikle mair upon't. 



CLXXVI. 

AMANG THE TREES. 

Tune — " The King of France, he rade a ra<s 

[Burns vkrrote these verses in scorn of those, and ki^ii 
are many, who prefer 

"The capon craws and queer ha ha's !" 
of emasculated Italy to the original and delicious »..*«, 
Highland and Lowland, of old Caledonia: the song tA « 
fragment — the more's the pity.] 

I. 

Amano the trees, where humming bees 

At buds and flowers were hinging, 0, 
Auld Caledon drew out her drone, 

And to her pipe was singing, ; 
'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels, 

She dirl'd them aff fu' clearly, 0, 
When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels, 

That dang her tapsalteerie, 0. 



Their capon craws and queer ha ha's. 

They made our lugs grow eerie, ; 
The hungry bike did scrape and pike^ 

'Till we were wae and weary, ; 
But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'i 

A prisoner aughteen year awa, 
He fir'd a fiddler in the north 

That dang them tapsalteerie, 0. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. t^73 


CLXXVII. 


CLXXVIII. 


THE <}OWDEN LOCKS OF ANNA. 


MY AIN KIND DEARIE 0. 


Tune — ''Banks of Banna." 


[This is the first iong composed by Burns for th« 


[" Anne vith the golden locks," one of the attendant 


national collection of Thomson : it was written in Octo- 


fuaidens in Burns's howff, in Dumfries, was very fair and 


ber, 1792. " On reading over the Lea-rig," he says, "1 


very tractable, and, as may be surmised from the song, 


immediately set about trying my hand on it, and; aftel 


had other pretty ways to render herself agreeable to the 


all, 1 could make nothing more of it than the followinjf." 


customers t. in the serving of wine. Burns recommended 


The first and second verses were only sent: Burns addM 




the third and last verse in December.] 


this scng to 1 '•\omson ; and one of his editors makes him 


lay, " I think tliis is one of the best love-songs I ever 


I. 


roniposed," but these are not the words of Burns; this 


contradiction is made openly, lest it should be thought 


When o'er the hill the eastern star 


that the bard ad the bad taste to prefer this strain to 


Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo ; 


ilpzens of ol.«eis more simple, more impassioned, and 


And owsen frae the furrow' d field 


f»ore natural.] 






Return sae dowf and weary, ! 


I. 


Down by the burn, where scented birks ^ 


Testreen I had a pint o' wine, 


Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo; 


A place where body saw na' ; 


I'll meet thee on the lea-rig. 


Yestreen lay on this breast o* mine 


My aia kind dearie ! 


The gowden locks of Anna. 




The hungry Jew in wilderness 


II. 


Rejoicing o'er his manna, 


In miTkest glen, at midnight hour. 


Was naething to my hinny bliss 


I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, ; 


Upon the lips of Anna. 


If thro' that glen I gaed to thee. 




My ain kind dearie ! 


II. 


Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, 


Ye monarchs tak the east and west, 


And I were ne'er sae wearie, 0, 


Frae Indus to Savannah I 


I'd meet thee on the lea-rig. 


Gie me withjn my straining grasp 


My ain kind dearie ! 


The melting form of Anna. 




'^here I'll despise imperial charms, 


III. 


An empress or sultana, 


The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 


While dying raptures in her arms 


To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; 


I give and take with Anna I 


At noon the fisher seeks the glen. 




Alang the burn to steer, my jo ; 


III. 


Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray, 


Awa, thou flaunting god o' day ! 


It maks my heart sae cheery, 0, 


Awa, thou pale Diana ! 


To meet thee on the lea-ring. 


Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray. 


My ain kind dearie 1 


When I'm to meet my Anna. 




Come, in thy raven plumage, night ! 
Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a* ; 






And bring an angel pen to write 




My transports wi» my Anna ! 






CLXXIX. 


• IV. 


TO MARY CAMPBELL. 


The kirk an' state may join and tell — 




To do sic things I maunna : 


["In my very early years," says Burns to ThoiiiHt H, 


"when I was thinking of going to the West Indies ] 


The kirk and state may gang to hell. 


took the following farewell of a dear girl. You inuf^t 


And I'll gae to my Anna. 


know that all my earlier love-songs were the breathings 


She is the sunshine of mj e'e. 


of ardent passion, and though it might have been easy ii 


To live but her I canna: 


after times to have given them a polish, yet that polish. 


Hjd I on earth but wishes three. 
The first should be my Anna. 
18 


to me, would have defaced the legend of my heart, m 


1 For " scented birks," in some copies, "■ birken buda 



274 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Taithfuly inscribed on them. Their uncouth simpli it; 
was, as tliey say of wines, their race." The heroine ol 
>liis early composition was Highland Mary.] 

I. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 

And leave old Scotia's shore ? 
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 

Across th' Atlantic's roar ? 



sweet grows the lime and the orange, 

And the apple on the pice ; 
But a' the charms o' the Indies 

Can never equal thine. 



I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 
1 hae sworn by the Heavens to be true ; 

And sae may the Heavens forget me 
When I forget my vow ! 



plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily white hand ; 

plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 



We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join ; 
And curst be the cause that shall part us I 

The hour and the moment o' time I 



CLXXX. 
THE WINSOME WEE THING. 

{These words were wri ten for Thomson: or rather 
isad© extempore "I mi{ ht give you something more 
^roicind,'^ says the poet, "yet it might not suit the 
kf 'it aoree ga.iop of the air, so well as this random 
I ik >] 



She is a win&Dme wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 



I never saw a fairer, 
I never lo'ed a dearer ; 
And niest my heart I'll wear ber^ 
For fear my jewel tine. 



III. 
She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 



The warld's wrack we share o'i, 
The warstle and the care o't ; 
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, 
And think my lot divine 



CLXXXI. 
BONNIE LESLEY. 

["I have just," says Burns to Thomson, " been £X>« 
ing over the ' Collier's bonnie Daughter,' and if the fo. 
lowing rhapsody, which I composed the other aay, on a 
cliarming Ayrshire girl, Miss Leslie Baillie, as she pass«| 
through this place to England, will suit your taste bettei 
than the Collier Lassie, fall on and welcome." Tni 
lady was soon afterwards married to Mr. Cuming-, o< 
Lo£ie.] 



SAW ye bonnie Lesley 

As she ga'ed o'er the border? 

She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 

II. 

To see her is to love her, 
And love but her for ever ; 

For Nature made her what she is, 
And never made anither I 



Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, before thee: 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 



The deil he could na scaith thee. 
Or aught that wad belang theej 

He'd look into thy bonnie face, 
And say, «♦ I canna wrang thee." 



The powers aboon will tent thee j 
Misfortune sha' na steer thee : 

Thou'rt like themselves so lovely, 
That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 



OF ROBERT BURNS 



.76 



Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ; 
That we may brag, we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonnie. 



CLXXXII. 

dIGHLAND MARY. 

Tune — '^Katherine Offie." 

[Mary Campbell, of whose worth and beauty Burns 
aas sing with such deep feeling, was the daughter of a 
aianner, who lived in Greenock. She became acquainted 
with the poet while on service at the castle of Mont- 
gomery, and their strolls in the woods and their roaming 
trystes only served to deepen and settle their affections, 
f heir love had much of the solemn as well as of the ro- 
mantic : on the day of their separation they plighted their 
mutual faith by the exchange of Bibles : they stood with 
a running-strertm between them, and lifting up water in 
their hands vowed love while woods grew aad waters ran. 
The Bible which the poet gave was elegantly bound : 
'Ye shall not swear by my name falsely,' was written 
in the bold Mauchline hand of Burns, and underneath 
was )iis name, and his mark as a freemason. They parted 
to meet no more : Mary Campbell was carried off sud- 
denly by a burning fever, and the first intimation which 
the poet had of her fate, was when, it is said, he visited 
ne.' friends to meet her on her return from Cowal, whi- 
Iher she had gone to make arrangements for her mar- 
nage. The Bible is in the keeping of her relations : we 
lave seen a lock of her hair ; it was very long and very 
■>Tght, and of a hue deeper than the flaxen. The song 
•ns writtea f5f ThomBcn-s work.] 



Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Four waters never drumlie ! 
There Simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last farewell 

0' my sweet Highland Mary. 



How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom. 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings 

Flew o'er me and my dearie; 
?or dear to me, as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Marj 1 



III. 

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu 'ender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But oh ! fell death's untimely frost. 

That nipt my flower sae early ! — 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the olay^ 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

IV. 

pal«, pale now, those rosy lips 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
And clos'd for ay the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust. 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly — 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary I 



CLXXXIII. 
AULD ROB MORRIS. 

[The starting lines of this song are from one of no UttM 
merit in Ramsay's collection : the old strain is sarcastic ; 
the new strain is tender : it was written for Thomson.] 

I. 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon 

glen, 
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld 

men ; 
He has gowd in his cofi'ers, he has owsen and 

kine, 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 



She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May 
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay , 
As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the \e% 
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. 



But oh! she's an heiress, — auld Robin's a laird, 
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and 

yard ; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed ; 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my 

dead. 



276 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



The day comes to me, but deliglit brings me 

nane ; 
The night comes to me, hut my rest it is gane: 
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, 
Atti I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my 

brea,st. 

V. 

had she but been of a lower degree, 

1 tlien might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon 

me I 
0, how past descriving had then been my bliss, 
As now my distraction no words can express ! 



CLXXXIV. 

DUNCAN GRAY. 

[This Duncan Gray of Burns, has nothing in common 
with the wild old song of that name, save the first line, and 
a part of the third, neither has it any share in the senti- 
ments of an earlier strain, with the same title, by the 
same hand. It was written for tlie work of Thomson.] 

I. 
Duncan Gray cam here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 
On blythe yule night when we were fou, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Maggie coost her head fu' higli, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd, 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 

Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 

Grat his een baith bleer't and blin'^ 

Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ; 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 
Slighted love is sair to bide. 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he. 
For a haughty hizzie die ? * 

She may gae to — France for me 1 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



How it comes let doctors tell, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 
Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Something in her bosom Vrings, 
For relief a sigh she brings : 
And 0, her een, they spak sic things 1 

Ha, ha, the woping o't. 



Duncan was a lad o' grace, 
. Ha, ha, the wooing o't; 
Maggie's was a piteous case. 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Duncan could na be her death. 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and canty ) -uth, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



CLXXXV. 
POORTITH CAULD. 

Tune — " I had a horse." 

[Jean Lonmer, the Chloris and the " Lassie with Jin 
lint-white locks" of Burns, was the heroine ol Uiis ex.- 
quisite lyric : she was at that time very yoi ig ; h«n 
Bhape was fine, and her "dimpled cheek and Chen) 
mou" will be long remembered in Nithsdale.] 



POOKTiTH cauld, and restless love, 

Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 
Yet poortith a' I could forgive. 
An' twere na' for my Jeanie. 

why should fate sic pleasure ha'<i 

Life's dearest bands untwining? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love 
Depend on fortune's shining ? 



This warld's wealth when I think on, 
It's pride, and a' the lave o't — 

Fie, fie on silly coward man, 
That he should be the slave o't ^ 



Her een sae bonnie blue betray 
How she repays my passion : 

But prudence is her o'erword ay, 
She talks of rank and fashion. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



277 



IV. 

wha can prudence think upon, 
And sic a lassie by him ? 

wha can prudence think upon, 
And sae in love as I am ? 



How blest the humble cotter's fate!^ 

He wooes his simple dearie ; 
The silly bogles, wealth and state, 
Can never make them eerie. 

why should Fate sic pleasure have," 

Life's dearest bands untwining ? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love 
Depend on Fortune's shining ? 



CLXXXVI. 
GALLA WATER. 



L*' Galla Water" is an improved version of an earlier 

lorg by Burns : but both songs owe some of their attrac- 
>ions to an older strain, which the exquisite air has made 
popular over the world. It was written for Thomson.] 



There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander thro' the blooming heather ; 

But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws 
Can match the lads o' Galla Water. 



Bat there is ane, a secret ane, 
Aboon them a' I lo'e him better ; 

And I'll be his, and he'll be mine. 
The bonnie lad o' Galla Water. 



iltho' his daddie was nae laird, 
And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher; 

fet rich in kindest, truest love, 
We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water. 



It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure ; 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
that's the chiefest warld's treasure I 

"lae wild-wood Indian's Fate," in the origina' MS. 



CLXXXVII. 

LORD GREGORY. 

[Dr. Wolcot wrote a Lord Gregory for T^omeonl 
collection, in imitation of which Burns wrote his, and 
the Englishman complained, with an oath, that th« 
Scotchman sought to rob him of the merit of Lis co.»po» 
sition. Wolcot's song was, indeed, written first, DJ«< 
they are both but imitations ofthat most exquipit© old «>aj- 
lad, " Fair Annie of Lochryan," which neither W().co' 
nor Burns valued as it deserved: it far surpastes loti 
their songs.] 

I. 
MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour, 

And loud the tempest's roar ; 
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r. 

Lord Gregory, ope thy door ! 



An exile frae her father's ha', 
And a' for loving thee ; 

At least some pity on me shaw. 
If love it may na be. 



Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove 

By bonnie Irwin-side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin-lovo 

I lang, lang had denied ? 



How often didst thou pledge and vow 
Thou wad for ay be mine ; 

And my fond heart, itseP sae true. 
It ne'er mistrusi^jd thine. 



Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast — 
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, 

wilt thou give me rest! 



Ye mustering thunders from above, 

Your willing victim see ! 
But spare and pardon my fause love, 

His wrangs to heaven and me I 



CLXXXVIII. 
MARY MORI SON. 

Tune — *' Bide ye yet.'''* 

[<< The song prefixed," observes Burns to ThnmiM/u 
is one of mv juvenile works. I leave it m yjur hand* 



278 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



I do not think it very remarkable either for its merits or 

te demerits." " Of all the productions of Burns," says 
HazUtt, " the pathetic and serious love-songs which he 
das left behind him, in the manner of the old ballads, are, 
nerhaps, those w^hich take the deepest and most lasting 
nold of the mind. Such are the lines to Mary Morison." 
The song is supposed to have been written on one of a 
'■jutily © ilorisons at Mauchline.] 

I. 

Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! 
Those smiles and glances let my see 

That make the miser's treasure poor: 
How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun ; 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison! 

II. 

Yestreen, when to the trembling string 
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 

To thee my fancy took its wing, 
I sat, but neither heard or saw : 

Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 
And yon the toast of a' the town, 

1 sigh'd, and said amang them a', 
*< Ye are na Mary Morison." 

III. 
Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ' 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Wha5»e only faut is loving thee ? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie, 

At least be pity to me shown ; 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



CLXXXIX. 

WANDERING WILLIE. 

[first version.] 

(The idea of this song is taken from verses of the same 
DEfene pubiished by Herd : the heroine is supposed to 
uave been the accomplished Mrs. Riddel. Erskine, and 
IViomson sat in judgment upon it, and, like true critics, 
squeezed much of thfe c^tural and original spirit out of 
t. Burns approved of the.r alterations ; but he approved, 
uo dout t, in bitterness of spirit.] 



JIere awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
N»w tired with wandering, haud awa hame 



Come to my bosom, my ae only dep.rie. 
And tell me thou bring' st me my Willie tin 
same. 



Loud blew the cauld winter winds at otur part 
ing; 
It was na the blast brought the tear in mj 
e'e; 
Now welcome the simmer, and welcome mj 
Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 



Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers 1 
how your wild horrors a lover alarms ! 

Awaken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows. 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my 
arms. 



But if he's forgotten his faithfulest Nannie, 
still flow between us, thou wide roaring 
main ; 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 

But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. 



cxc. 

WANDERING WILLIE. 

[last VERSION.] 

[This is the "Wandering Willie" as altered by Er. 
skine and Thomson, and approved by Burns, a'^cer reject 
ing several of their emendations. The chang'js w©r« 
made chiefly with the view of hai-monizing the word* 
with the music — an Italian mode of raer.'iing the ^^rmoa; 
of the human voice.] 

I. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame j 

Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie, 

Tell me thou bring' st me my Willie the same 



Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our part 
ing, 

Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e 
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 

The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



?79 



Rest, ye wild storms, in tlie cave of your slum- 
bers, 
How yov.r dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye tillows. 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my 
arms. 



IV. 



^^l 



oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his 
Nannie, 
Flow still between us, thou wide roaring main ; 
May I never see it, may I never trow it. 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. 



CXCI. 

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OHI 

[Written for Thomson's collection : the first version 
wrhich he wrote was not happy in its harmony : Burna 
altered and corrected it as it now stands, and then said, 
«< I do not know if this song be really mended,"] 



UH, open the door, some pity to show, 

Oh, open the door to me, Oh!* 
Tho' thou has been false, I'll ever prove true, 

Oh, open the door to me. Oh ! 



Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, 
But caulder thy love for me, Oh I 

The frost that freezes the life at my heart, 
Is nought to my pains frae thee. Oh I 



The wan moon is setting behind the white wave. 
And time is setting with me. Oh! 

F ilse frien Is, false love, farewell ! for mair 
I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh! 



Bhe has open'd the door, she hasopen'ditwide; 

She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh! 
My true love! she cried, and sank down by his 
side. 

Never to rise aga'n, Oh ! 



I This second line was onginaliy- 
», Oh •>' 



If love it may na 



CXCII. 

JESSIE. 

Tune — "Bonnie Dundee." 

[Jessie Staig, the eldest daughter of the provost <h 
Dumfries, was tl« heroine of this song. She bocnm© q 
wife and a mother, but died early in life : she is Btil'i a/> 
fectionately remembered in her native place.] 



I. 

he, the 



sad swain o' tht 



True hearted was 
Yarrow, 

And fair are the maids on the banks o' th« 
Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river, 

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain ; 
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover. 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain 



0, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; 

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law: 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger— 

Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a' ! 



CXCIII. 

THE POOR AND HONEST SODGEK 

Air—" The Mill, Mill, 0." 

[Burns, it is said, composed this song, once very popa 
lar, on hearing a maimed soldier relate his adveiiturefj 
at Brownhill, in Nithsdale : it was published by Thorn 
son, after suggesting some alterations; which were pro- 
perly rejected.] 

I. 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 

And mony a widow mourning ; 
I left the lines and tented field. 

Where lang I'd been a lodger, 
My humble knapsack a' my wealtti, 

A poor and honest sodger. 



A leal, light heart was in my breast. 
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder* 



280 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



And for fair Scotia, hame again, 
I cheery on did wander. 

I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 
I thought upon my Nancy, 

I thought upon the witching smile 
TLat caught my youthful fancy. 



At length I reach'd the bonny glen, 

Where early life I sported ; 
I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn^ 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spfed I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling ! 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 

IV. 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass. 

Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 
! happy, happy, may he be 

That's dearest to thy bosom ! 
My purse is light, I've far to gang, 

And fain wad be thy lodger ; 
I've serv'd my king and country lang — 

Take pity on a sodger. 



Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, 

And lovelier was then ever ; 
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'd. 

Forget him shall I never : 
Our humble cot, and hamely fare, 

Ye freely shall partake it, 
That gallant badge — the dear cockade- 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't. 



She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose- 
Syne pale like onie lily ; 

She sank within my arms, and cried, 
Art thou my ain dear Willie ? 

By him who made yon sun and sky — 
By whom true love's regarded, 

I am the man ; and thus may still 
True lovers be rewarded ! 

VII. 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, 
And find thee still true-hearted ; 

Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, 
And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 



Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd, 

A mailen plenish'd fairly ; 
And come, my faithful sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly ! 

VIII. 

For gold the merchant ploughs the maiSf 

The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
But glory is the sodger's prize, 

The sodger's wealth is honour ; 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, 

Nor count him as a stranger : 
Remember he's his country's stay, 

In day and hour of danger. 



CXCIV. 
MEG 0' THE MILL. 

Air — " Hey ! bonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack ?" 

["Do you know a fine air," Burns asks Thomson, 
April, 1793, " called ' Jackie Hume's Lament ?' I have 
a song of considerable merit to that air : I'll enclose you 
both song and tune, as I have them ready to send to the 
Museum." It is probable that Thomson hked these 
verses too well to let them go willingly from his hands : 
Burns touched up the old song with the same starling 
line, but a less delicate conclusion, aud published it in 
the Museum.] 

I. 

KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claute o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 



The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy; 
A heart like a lord and a hue like a lady : 
The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl ; 
She's left the guid-fellow and ta'en the thurl. 

Ill . 

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and Icnng ; 
The Laird did address her wi' matter mail 

moving, 
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side and a bonnie side-saddle. 

IV. 

wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ; 
And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen ' 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle. 
But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl 1 




LOGAN BRAES." 



OF KOBERT BURNS. 



m 



cxov. 
BLYTHE HAE I BEEN. 

Tune — ^^ Liggeram Cosh," 

[Bum ;f io seldom praised his o\\'ti compositions, told 
rhoit»">!i t;r ■^\:?' work he wrote it^ that " Blytha hae 
\ been o- yon hi.I," was one of the finest songs he had 
•ver made in his life, and composed on one of the most 
\0 vely wom<^^ in the v^^orid. The heroine was Mi^ Les- 
* Baillie.] 

I. 
Blythe hae I been on yon hill 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free 

As the breeze flew o'er me. 
Now nae langer sport and play, 
Mirth or sang can please me ; 
Lesley is sae fair and coy, 
Care and anguish seize me. 

II. 

Heavy, heavy is the task, 

Hopeless love declaring: 
Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing ! 
If she winna ease the thraws 

In my bosom swelling, 
Underneath the grass-green sod 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 



CXCVI. 
LOGAN WATER. 

["Have you ever, my dear sir," says Burns to Thom- 
»n, 2oth June, 1793, "felt your bosom readv to burst 
vith indignation on reading of those mighty villains who 
iivide kingdom against kingdom, desolate provinces, and 
ay nations waste, out of the wantonness of ambition, or 
often from still more ignoble passions ? In a mood of 
this lind to-day I recollected the air of Logan Water. 
If 1 have done anything at all like justice to my feelings, 
t^ following song, composed in three-quarters of an 
\j1. 'b meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to have some 
oerit." The poet had in mmd, too, during this poetio 
Iti the beautiful song of Logan-braes, by my friend JohQ 
ktyns, a Nithsdale poet.] 



Lo3AN, sweetly didst thou glide, 
That day I was my Willie's bride ! 
And years synsyne hae o'er us run, 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now thy flow'ry banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear. 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, f .r frae me and Logan braes ! 



Again the merry month o' May 
Has made our hills and valleys gr^y ; 
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, 
The bees hum round the breathing flowera 
Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye, 
And Evening's tears are teais of j<y : 
My soul, delightless, a' surveys, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 



Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile: 
But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days. 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes 



wae upon you, men o' state. 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate i 
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry?* 
But soon may peace bring happy days 
And Willie hame to Logan braes ! 



CXCVII. 

THE RED, RED ROSE. 

Air — * ' Hughie Graham. *' 

[There are snatches of old song so exquisitely fivH 
that, like fractured crystal, they cannot be mended 
eked out, without showing where the hand of the re- 
storer has been. This seems the case with the first vers* 
of this song, which the poet found in Withortpccn, and 
completed by the addition of the second vers<^, which hi 
felt to be inferior, by desiring Thomson to mane his own 
the first verse, and. let the other follow, which woi i 
conclude the strain with a thought as beautiful hi it Wti 
original.] 

I. 

WERE my love yon lilac fair, 

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring; 

And I, a bird to shelter there. 
When wearied on my little wingl 

> Originally — 

" ^'e mind na, 'mid your cruel ioyg, 
The widow's tears, theojphMTi's criOB * 



282 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude I 

But I wad sing on wanton wing, 

When youthfu' May its bloom renewed. 



gir. vzy love were yon red rose, 

That grows upon the castle wa' ; 
And I mysel' a drap o' dew. 

Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 
Oh, there beyond expression blest, 

I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; 
Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 

T'ill fley'd awa by Phoebus' light. 



CXCVIII. 
BONNIE JEAN. 

[Jean M'Murdo, the heroine of. this song, the eldest 
daughter of John M'Murdo of Drumlanrig, was, both in 
merit and look, very worthy of so sweet a strain, and 
justified the poet from the charge made against him in 
the Wesf, that his beauties were not other men's beau- 
ties. In the M Murdo manuscript, ir. Burns's handwrit- 
mg, theie is a well-merited complinr.ent which has slipt 
»ut of the printed copy in Thomson : — 

" Thy handsome foot thou shalt na set 
In barn or byre to trouble thee."] 



There was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and market to be seen, 

When a' the fairest maids were met. 
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

II. 

AjQd aye she wrought her mammie's wark, 

And ay she sang so merrilie : 
rte blithest bird upon the bush 

Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 



But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest ; 

And frost will blight the fairest flowers, 
And love will break the soundest rest. 



Young Robie was the brawest lad, 
The flower and pride of a' the glen; 

And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, 
Knd wanton naigies nine or ten. 



V. 



He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryate, 
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down ; 

And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stcwil 



As in the bosom o' the stream, 

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'on ; 

So trembling, pure, was tender love 
Within the breast o' bonnie Joan. 

VII. 

And now she works her mammie's wark. 
And ay she sighs wi' care and pain ; 

Yet wist na what her ail might be, 
Or what wad mak her weel again. 



But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, 
And did na joy blink in her e'e. 

As Robie tauld a tale of love, 
Ae e'enin' on the lily lea ? 



The sun was sinking in the west, 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 

His cheek to hers he fondly prest, 
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love ; 

X. 

Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; 

O canst thou think to fancy me ! 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot. 

And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? 

XI. 

At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, 
Or naething else to trouble thee ; 

But stray amang the heather-bells. 
And tent the waving corn wi' me. 



Now wliat could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had nae will to say him na : 
At length she blush'd a sweet consent, 

And love was ay between them tw»' 



CXCIX. 

PHILLIS THE FAIR. 

Tune — ^^ Robin Adair." 

(\h.3 ladies of the AI'Murdo family were graceful and 
b«uutjful, and lucky in finding a poet capable of record- 
iag their charms in lasting strains. The heroine of this 
loug was Phillis M'Mu .do ; a favourite of the poet. The 
rafWB W3r3 composer, at the request of Clarke, the mu- 
»lc:8n^ who believ^ed himself in love with his " charming 
•«til." She laughed at the presumptuous fiddler.] 

I. 

While larks "svith little wing 

Fann'd the pure air, 
Tasting the breathing spring, 

Forth I did fare : 
Gay the sun's golden eye 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high; 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 



In each bird's careless song, 

Glad I did share ; 
While yon -wild flowers among. 

Chance led me there: 
Sweet to the opening day, 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray; 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

Phillis the fair. 

Ill 

Down in a shady walk 

Doves cooing were, 
I mark'd the cruel hawk, 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may fortune be. 
Such make his destiny ! 
He who would injure thee, 

Phillis the fair. 



CO. 

HAD I A CAVE. 

Tune — '^ Robin Adair." 

Alexander Cunningham, on whose unfortunate love- 
tdventure Burns composed this song for Thomsca, was 
fc jeweller in Kdinburgh, well connected, and of agreea- 
ble and polished mnnn.-rs. Tlie story of his faithless 
■uitress uas the talk of Edinburgh, in 1703, when these 



words were written : the hero of the la}' has beer lou| 
dead J the heroine resides, a widow, in Edinburgh.] 



Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing 
roar; 
There would I weep my woes, 
There seek my lost repose. 

Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more. 



II. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, 
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as aijtl 
To thy new lover hie, 
Laugh o'er thy perjury, 
Then in thy bosom try 
What peace is there I 



CCI. 



BY ALLAN STREAM. 

[" Bravo ! say I," exclaimed Burns, when he wrote 
these verses for Thomson. " It is a good song. Should 
you think so too, not else, you can set the music to it, 
and let the other follow as English verses. Autumn ia 
my propitious season ; I make more verses in it than all 
the year else." The old song of " O my love Annie'i 
very bonnie/' helped the muse of Burns with this lyric. 

I. 

By Allan stream I chanced to rove 

While Phoebus sank beyond Benledl, 
The winds were whispering through the grOTe, 

The yellow corn was waving ready ; 
I listened to a lover's sang. 

And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony . 
And aye the wild wood echoes rang- 

dearly do I lo'e thee, Annie t 



happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place and time I met my dearie! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast. 

She, sinking, said, "I'm thine for ever?' 
While mony a kiss the seal imprest. 

The sacred vow, — we ne'er sb )uld sever. 



>84 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



III. 

The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae, 

The Simmer joys the flocks to follow; 
How cheery, thro' her shortening day, 

Is Autumn, in her weeds o' yellow I 
But can they melt the glowing heart, 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure. 
Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart, 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? 



ecu. 

WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU. 

[In one of the variations of this snng the name of the 
aeroine is Jeanie : the song itself owes some of the senti- 
ments as well as words to an old favourite Nithsdale 
chant of the same name. " Is Whistle, and I'll come 
to you, my lad," Burns inquires of Thomson, "one of 
your airs? I admire it much, and yesterday I set the 
followmg verses to it." Tlie poet, two years afterwards, 
altered the fourth line thus: — 

" Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my lad," 
and assigned this reason : " In fact, a fair dame at whose 
shrine I, the priest of the Nine, offer up the mcense of 
Parnassus; a dame whom the Graces ha e attired in 
witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed with light- 
ning ; a fair one, herself the neroine of the song, insists 
on the amendment, and dispute her commands if you 
dare."] 

I. 

WHISTLE, and I'll come to you, my lad, 
whistle, and 1 11 come to you, my lad : 
Tho* father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. 
But warily tent, when you come to court me. 
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee; 
Syne up the back-stile and l^t naebody see, 
And come as ye were na comin' to me. 
And come as ye were na comin' to me. 



A. kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me. 
Gang 1»y me as tho' that ye car'd na a file ; 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, 
Fet Ic ;i as ye w^ere na lookin' at me. 
Tot look as ye were na lookin' at me. 



Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee; 
But court na anither, tho' jokin' ye be, 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 



whistle, and I'll come to you^ my lad, 
whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
whistle, and I'll come to you, my lai. 



CCIII. 
ADOWN WINDING KITH. 

[" Mr. Clarke," says Burns to Thomuor, " bef b you ti 
give Miss Phillis a corner in your bojk, »a she is a par 
ticular flame of his. She is a M'^p Piiiliis M'Muid© 
sister to 'Bonnie Jean;' they are brth pupils of his.^ 
This lady afterwards became MfR. Norman Lockhart, ot 
Carnwath.] 

I. 

Adown winding Nith I did wander. 

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring ; 
Adown winding Nith I did wander. 

Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 
Awa wi' your belles and your beauties, 

They never wi' her can compare : 
Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, 

Has met wi' the queen o' the fair 



The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, 
So artless, so simple, so wild ; 

Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, 
For she is simplicity's child. 



Th# rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest: 

How fair and how pure is the lily, 
But fairer and purer her breast. 

IV. 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour. 
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie: 

Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine, 
Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. 



Her voice is the song of the morning. 

That wakes thro' the green-spreading groT* 

When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 



But beauty how frail and how fleeting. 
The bloom of a fine summer's dav ' 

While worth in the mind o' my Phillis 
Will flourish without a decay. 




O ^VlllSTLi:, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



285 



Awa wi' your belles and your beauties, 
They never wi' her can compare : 

WhaeA'er has met wi' my Phillis 
Pas met wi' the queen o' the fair. 



CCIV. 

COME, LET ME TAKE THEE. 

Mv—'' Cauld KaiV 

[Burns composed this lyric in August, 1793, and tradi- 
tion says it was produced by the charms of Jean Lorimer. 
" That tune, Cauld Kail," he says to Thomson, " is such 
\ favourite of yours, that I once more roved out yester- 
day fei- a gloamin-shot at the Muses; when the Muse 
thd'. presides over the shores of Nith, or rather my old 
in-firiog, dearest nymph, Coila, whispered me the io\- 



Come, let me take thee to my breast, 

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The warld's wealth and grandeur : 
And do I hear my Jeanie own 

That equal transports move her? 
I ask for dearest life alone, 

That I may live to love her. 



Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure ; 
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share, 

Than sic a moment's pleasure: ■ 
And by thy een, sae bounie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever ! 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never. 



CCV. 
DAINTY DAVIE. 

[From the o.d song of"Damtie Davie" Burns has 
ftiiTrowed only the title and the measure. The ancient 
Itrain records how tlie Rev. David Williamson, to escape 
the pursuit of the dragoons, in the time of the persecu- 
tion, was hid, by the devout Lady of Cherrytrees, in the 
•ame bed with her ailing daughter. The divine lived to 
aave six wives beside the daughter of tlie Lady of Clier- 
nrtre^s and other childrer esides the one which his 



hiding from the dragoons produced. When Charles tL« 
Second was told of the adventure and its upshot, he ■ 
said to have exclaimed, " God's fish ! that beats me ant 
the oak : the man ought to be made a bishop."] 

I. 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green-spreading boweri 
And now comes in my happy hours, 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

Meet me on the warlock kiiowe, 

Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 
There I'll spend the day wi' you, 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 

II. 

The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a'. 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A wandering wi' my Davie. 



When purple morning starts the hare. 
To steal upon her early fare. 
Then thro' the dews I will repair^ 
To meet my faithfu' Davio 



When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
I flee to his arms I lo'e best. 
And that's my ain dear Davie. 
Meet me on the warlock knowe, 

Bonnie Davie, dainty Davie, 
There I'll spend the day wi' you, 
My ain dear dainty Davi«. 



CCVI. 
BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBUBN ^ 

[first version.] 
Tune — '■'■Iley^ tuttie taitie. ■ 

[Syme of Ryedale states that this fine ode was zon 
posed aunng a storm of rain and fire, among the 'vilds of 
Glenken in Galloway: the poet himself gives an viccouuj 
much less romantic. In speaking of the air to Thomson 
he says, " There is a tradition which 1 have met with in 
many places in Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce'ii 
march at the battle of Bnnnockburn. This thought, iu 
my solitary wanderings, warmed me to a pitch of enthu 
siasm on the theme of liberty and independence, which! 
threw into a kind of Scottish oJe, fitted to the afr, tb» 



280 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



ane might suppose to be the royal Scot's address to his 
heroic followers on that eventful morning." It was 
•written in September, 1793.] 



Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to victorie ! . 



Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lour : 
See approach proud Edward's pow'r — 
Chains and slaverie I 



Wha will be a traitor-knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Let him turn and flee ! 

IV. 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 
Let him follow me ! 

V. 

By oppression's woes and pains I 
By our sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be free I 



Lay the proud usurpers low I 
Tyrants fall in every foe I 
Liberty's in every blow ! — 
Let us do or die I 



CCVII. • 

BANNOCKBUUN. 

RUBER 1 BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

[second version.] 

[Thomson acknowledged the charm which this martial 
md national ode had for him, but he disliked the air, and 
proposed to substitute that of Lewis Gordon in its place. 
Hut Lewis Gordon required a couple of syllables more 
n every fourth line, which loaded the verse with exple- 
Ifves, and weakened the simple energy of the original : 
lurss consented ;o the proper alterations, after a slight 



resistance; but when Thomson, having succeeded it 
this, proposed a change in the expression, no warrior o/ 
Bruce's day ever resisted more sternly the march of « 
Southron over the border. " The only line," savs the m» 
sician, "which I dislike in the whole song is, 

' Welcome to your gory bed :' 
gory presents a disagreeable image to the mmd, and a 
prudent general would avoid saying anything to his sol- 
diers which might tend to make death more frightful tha« 
it is." " My ode," replied Burns, " pleases me so much 
that I cannot alter it : your proposed alterations would, 
in my opinion, make it tame." Thomson cries out. ik« 
the timid wife of Coriolanus, " Oh, God, no blood !" 
while Burns exclaims, like that Roman's heroic mother 
"Yes, blood ! it becomes a soldier more than gilt hit 
trophy." The ode as originally written was restoied 
afterwards in Thomson's collection.' 



Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victorie I 

II. 

Now's the day, and now's the hour — 
See the front o' battle lour ; 
See approach proud Edward's powCr— 
Edward ! chains and slaverie 1 

III. 

Wha will be a traitor-knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee I 

IV.* 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 
Caledonian ! on wi' me I 

V. 

By oppression's woes and pams I 
By our sons in servile chains I 
We will drain our dearest veins. 
But they shall be — shall be free I 



Lay the proud usurpers low I 
Tyrants fall in every foe I 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Forward ! let us do, or die I 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



281 



covin. 

BEHOLD THE HOUR. 

Tune — ** Oran-gaoil." 

l'' The folio wing song I have composed for the Highland 
air that you tell me in your last you have resolved to 
|i ^o 8 place to in your book. I have this moment finished 
tikS BODg, so 70U have it g'owing from the mint." These 
W* the woi is of Burns to Thomson : he might have 
iddid t:at ti.e song was written on the meditated voyage 
01 Clariuda to the West Indies, to join her husband.] 



Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart I 
Sever'd from thee can I survive ? 

But fate has will'd, and we must part. 
I'll often greet this surging swell, 

Yon distant isle will often hail : 
•' E'en here I took the last farewell ; 

There, latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." 

II. 

Along the solitary shore 

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, 
Across the rolling, dashing roar, 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, 

Where now my Nancy's path may be ! 
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, 

tell me, does she muse on me ? 



CCIX. 

THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER. 

Tune — '« Fee him, father.'' 

["1 do not give these verses," says Burns to Thom- 
»on, " for any merit they have. I composed them at th« 
ume in which ' Patie Allan's mither died, about the 
back o' midnight,' and by the lee side of a bowl of punch, 
Which had overset every mortal in company, except the 
lautbois and the muse." To the poet's intercourse with 
luaicians we owe some fine songs.] 



Thou hast left me ever, Jamie I 

Thou hast left me ever ; 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie ! 

Thou hast left me ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death 

Only should us sever ; 
Now thou's left thy lass for ay — 

I maun see thee never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never I 



Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie ! 

Thou hast me forsaken ; 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie ! 

Thou hast me forsaken. 
Thou canst love anither jo, 

While my heart is breaking : 
Soon my weary een I'll close, 

Never mair to waken, Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken 1 



OCX. 

AULB LANG SYNE. 

['•' Is not the Scotch phrase," Burns writes to Mra 
Dunlop, "Auld lang syne, exceedir:gly expressive? 
There is an old song and tune which has often thrilled 
through ray soul : I shall give you the verses on the othei 
sheet. Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven-in- 
spired poet who composed this glorious fragment.* 
" The following song," says the poet, when he commu 
nicated it to George Thomson, " an old song of the olden 
times, and which has never been in print, nor even ia 
manuscript, until 1 took it down from an old man's sing- 
ing, is enough to recommend any air." These are strooig 
words, but there can be no doubt that, save for a line 01 
two, we owe the song to no other minstrel than '* min- 
strel Burns."] 

I. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And never brought to min' ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And days o' lang syne ? 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
For auld lang syne ! 



We twa hae run about the braes. 

And pu't the gowans fine ; 
But we've wander' d mony a weary fodi, 

Sin' auld lang syne. 



We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 
Frae mornin' sun till dine : 

But seas between us braid hae roar'd, 
Sin' auld lang syne. 



And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 

And gie's a hand 0' thine ; 
And we'll take a right guid willie-waoghk 

For auld lang syne. 



288 THE POETICAL WORKS 


V. 


CCXII. 


And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, 


DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE. 


And surely I'll be mine ; 




And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 


[To the air of the "Collier's dochter " Burns bid« 


For auld lang syne. 


Thomson add the following old Bacchanal : it is slightly 
altered from a rather stiff original.] 


For auld lang syne, my dear, 




For auld lang syne, 


I. 


We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 


Deluded swain, the pleasure 


For auld lang syne I 


The fickle fair can give thee. 




Is but a fairy treasure — 




Thy hopes will soon deceive the« 

II. 

The billows on the ocean, 




COXI. 


The breezes idly roaming, 




The clouds uncertain motion — 


FAIR JEANY. 


They are but types of woman. 


Tune— ** Saw ye my father T^ 


III. 


[In September, 1793, this song, as well aa several 


! art thou not ashamed 


others, was communicated to Thomson by Burns. *' Of 


To doat upon a feature? 


the poetry," he says, " I speak with confidence : but th« 


musi: is a business where I hint my ideas with the ut- 


If man thou wouldst be named. 


i»>ii Jif&lance."] 


Despise the silly creature. 


I. 

( Where are the joys I have met in the morning, 


IV. 

Go find an honest fellow ; 


That danc'd to the lark's early song ? 


Good claret set before thee : 


Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, 


Hold on till thou art mellow. 


At evening the wild woods among ? 

II. 

f^^o more a-winding the course of yon river, 


And then to bed in glory. 




And marking sweet flow'rets so fair : 




No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, 


ccxin. 


But sorrow and sad sighing care. 


NANCY. 




[This song was inspired by the charms *< ClRa'»c«* 


III. 


In one of the poet's manuscripts the song rommenc* 


la it that summer's forsaken our valleys. 


thug • 


And grim, surly winter is near ? 


Thine am I, my lovely Kate, 




Well thou mayest discover 


No, no, the bees' humming round the gay roses. 


Every pulse along my veins 


Proclaim it the pride of the year. 


Tell the ardent lover. 




This change was tried out of compliment, it i«« believKi, 


IV. 


to Mrs. Thomson; but Nancy ran more smoothly en tir* 


fain would I hide, what I fear to discover. 


even road of lyrical verse than Kate.J 


Yet long, long too well have I known, 


I. 


All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, 


Thine am I, my faithful fair. 


Is Jeany, fair Jeany alone. 


Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 




Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 


V. 


Ev'ry roving fancy. 


rime cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal. 




Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : 


II. 


Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, 


To thy bosom lay my heart, 


Enjoymsnt I'll seek in my woe. 


There to throb and languish: 



UF KOBERT BURNS. 



289 



Tho' despair had wrung its core, 
That would heal its anguish. 



Takb away those rosy lips, 
Rich with balmy treasure : 

Turn away thine eyes of love, 
Lest I die with pleasure. 



'nhat is life when wanting love? 

Night without a morning: 
Love's the cloudless summer sun, 

Nature gay adorning. 



CCXIV. 
MtJSBAND, HUSBAND. 

Tune — '■'■ Jo JaneV* 

C'Mv Jo Janet," in the collection of Allan Ramsay, 
was in the poet's eye when he composed this song, as 
Burely as the matrimonial bickerings recorded by the old 
aiinstrels were in his mind. He desires Thomson briefly 
to tell him how he likes these verses : the response of 
Ihe musician was, " Inimitable "] 

I. 
flusBAND, husband, cease your strife, 

Nor longer idly rave, sir ; 
Tho' I am your wedded wife. 

Yet I am not your slave, sir. 
•* One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Is it man or woman, say, 

My spouse, Nancy ?" 



If 'tis still the lordly word. 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sov'reign lord. 

And so, good bye, allegiance! 
** Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Yet I'll try to make a ehif*-, 

My spouse, Nancy." 



My poor heart then break it ¥i?v? , 
My last hour I'm near it: 

When you lay me in the dust. 
Think, think, Law you will be»r it 
19 



" I will hope and trust in heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Strength to bear it will be given. 

My spouse, Nancy." 



Well, sir, from the silent dead. 

Still I'll try to daunt you ; 
Ever round your midnight bed 

Horrid sprites shall haunt you, 
*' I'll wed another, like my dear 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Then all hell will fly for fear, 

My spouse, Nancy." 



ccxv. 

WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE. 

Air—" The Sutor's j)ochter." 

[Composed, it is said, in honour of Janet Millei ct 

Dalswinton, mother to the present Earl of Marr, ni 
then, and long after, one of the loveliest women in tiaf 
south of Scotland.] 

I. 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul. 

That's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and vow that only thcT 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear and vow 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

II. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 
Or if thou wilt no be my ain, 
Say na thou'lt refuse me : 
If it winna, canna be, 
Thou, for thine may choose m», 
Let me, lassie, quickly die. 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 
Lassie, let mo quickly die. 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



290 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



CCXVI. 

BUT LATELY SEEN. 

Tune — " The winter oflife^ 

[This gong was written for Johnson's Museum, in 
IV91 ; the air is East Indian : it was brought from Hindo- 
tiiL oy a particular friend of the poet. Thomson set the 
W"»rcl8 to the air of Gil Morrife : they are elsewhere set 
k- the tane of the Death of the Linnet.] 

. I. 

But lately seen in gladsome green, 

The woods rejoiced the day ; 
Thro' gentle showers and laughing flowers, 

In double pride were gay : 
But now our joys are fled 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a'. 



But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield, 

Sinks in Time's wintry rage. 
Oh ! age has weary days. 

And nights o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 

Why comes thou not again ? 



Tune- 



. \ 
COXVTI. 
TO MARY. 

" Could aught of song" 



[Thsse verses, inspired partly by Hamilton's very ten- 
lier nnd elegant song, 

" Ah ! the poor shepherd's mournful fate," 
M 1 some unrecorded '' Mary" of the poet's heart, is in 
Ihe latter volumes of Johnson. " It is inserted in John- 
»on's Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "with the 
narkift of Burns attached." He might have added that it 
was nent hy Burns, writter wJ/h his OAvn hand.] 



Could aught of song declare my pains, 

Could artful numbers move theo, 
The muse should tell in labour'd strains, 

Mary, how I love thee ! 
They who but feign a wounded heart 

May teach the lyre to languish ; 
But what avails the pride of art, 

When wastes the soul with anguish ? 



Then let the sudden bursting sigh 

The heart-felt pang discover; 
And in the keen, yet tender eye, 

read th' imploring lover. 
For well I know thy gentle mind 

Disdains art's gay disguising ; 
Beyond what Fancy e'er refin'd, 

The voice of nature prizing. 



ccxvni. , 

HERE'S TO THY HEALTH, Ml 

BONNIE LASS. 

Tune — ^^ Laggan Burn." 

[" This song is in the Musical Museum, with BaroM 
name to it," says Sir Harris Nicolas. It is a song of fcli 
poet's early days, which he trimmed up, and sent t 
Johnson.] 

I. 

Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass, 
Gude night, and joy be wi' thee ; 

I'll come na mair to thy bower-door. 
To tell thee that I lo'e thee. 

dinna think, my pretty pink, 
But I can live without thee : 

1 vow and swear I dinna care • 

How lang ye look about ye 



Thou'rt ay sae free informing me 

Thou hast na mind to marry ; 
I'll be as free informing thee 

Nae time hae I to tarry. 
I ken thy friends try ilka means, 

Frae wedlock to delay thee ; 
Depending on some higher chance 

But fortune may betray thee 



I ken they scorn my low estate,, 

But that does never grieve me j 
But I'm as free as any he, 

Sma' siller will relieve me. 
I count my health my greatest wealth, 

Sae long as I'll enjoy it • 
I'll fear na scant, I'll bode nae waat, 

As lang's I get employment. 



But far off" fowls hae feathers fair. 
And ay until ye try them • 






OF ROBEET BUlli'^io. 



291 t 



Tho' they seem fair, still have a care, 

They may p.jve vra'ir than I am. [bright, 

But at twal at nig-ht, when the moon shines 
My dear, I'll come ami see +hee : 

For the man that lo'es his mistress weel, 
Nae travel makes him weary. 



CCXIX. 
THE FAREWELL. 

Tune — "/i! was a^ for our rightfu^ Jcing" 

["It seems very doubtful," says Sir Harris Nicolas, 
'■' how much, even if any part of this song was written by 
Burns : it occurs in tlie Musical Museum, but not with 
ais name." Bums, it is believed, rather pruned and 
beautified an old Scottish lyric, than composed this strain 
laiirely. Johnson received it from him in his own hand- 

Wlit:Dg] 

I. 

li was a' for our rightfu' king, 
We left fair Scotland's strand; 

It wa-s a' for our rightfu' king 
We e'er saw Irish land, 

My dear ; 
We e'er saw Irish land. 



Now a' is done that men can do, 
And a' is done in vain ; 

My love and native land farewell, 
For I maun cross the main, 
My dear ; 
For I maun cross the main. 



He tum'd him right, and round about 

Upon the Irish shore ; 
And gae his bridle-reins a shake, 

With adieu for evermore. 

My dear; 

With adieu for evermore. 



The sodger from the wars returns. 
The sailor frae the main ; 

But I hae parted frae my love, 
Never to meet again. 

My dear ; 
Never t meet again 



When day is gane, and night is come, 
And a' folk bound to sleep ; 

I think on him that's far awa\ 
The lee-lang night, and weep, 

My dear ; 
The lee-lang night, and weep. 



ccxx. 

STEER HER UP. 

Tune — " steer her up, and hand her gaun** 

[Burns, in composing these verses, took the introdua 
tory lines of an older lyric, eked them out in his ow 
way, and sent them to the Museum.] 

I. 

STEER her up and hand her gaun— 

Her mother's at the mill, jo ; 
And gin she winna takjp a man, 

E'en let her take her will, jo: 
First shore her wi' a kindly kiss. 

And ca' another gill, jo. 
And gin she take the thing c^miss, 

E'en let her flyte her fiL, jo. 



steer her up, and be na blate. 

An' gin she take it ill, jo, 
Then lea'e the lassie till h«r fate, 

And time nae longer spiL, jo : 
Ne'er break your heart for ae rebute, 

But think upon it still, jo, 
That gin the lassie winna do't, 

Ye'U fin' anither will, jo. 



CCXXI. 
AY MY WIFE SHE DANG M 

Tune — " Mg wife she dang me." 

[Other verses to the same air, belongiij^ to the o 
times, are still remembered in Scotland: but they art 
only sung when the wine is in, and the sense of c«elicact 
out This song is in the Museum J 



AT my wife she dang me, 
And aft my wife did bang mew 



292 



TdE POETICAL WORKS 



If ye gie a woman a' her will, 

Gude faith, she'll soon o'er-gang ye. 

On peace and rest my mind was bent, 
And fool I was I married ; 

But never honest man's intent, 
As cursedly miscarried. 



Some sairie comfort still at last, 

When a' their days are done, man; 
My pains o' hell on earth are past, 

I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man. 
ay my wife she dang me. 

And aft my wife did bang me, 
If ye gie a woman a' her will, 

Gud9 faith, she'll soon o'er-gang ye. 



CCXXII. 

OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD 
BLAST. 

Tune — "Lass o' Livistone." 

[Tradition says this song was composed in honour of 
Fessie Lewars, the Jessie of the poet's death-bed strains, 
t is inserted in Thomson's collection: variations cccur 
,n several manuscripts, b*t they are neither important 
jor curious.] 



Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast. 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea. 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom, 

Tc share it a', to share it a'. 



Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 
The desert were a paradise. 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there : 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign. 
The brightest jewel in my crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 



ccxxr I. 

HERE IS THE GLEN. 

Tune—" Banks of Cree." 

[Of the origin of this song the poet gives the followini 
account. " 1 got an air, pretty enough, composed b) 
Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, whi !h she calls ' Th« 
Banks of Cree.' Cree is a beautiful romantic stream : 
and as her ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I havi 
written the following song to it."] 



Here is the glen, and here the bower, 
All underneath the birchen shade ; 

The village-bell has told the hour — 
what can stay my lovely maid? 



'Tis not Maria's whispering call ; 

'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale, 
Mix'd with some warbler's dying fall 

The dewy star of eve to hail, 

III. 

It is Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark in the grjve, 
His little, faithful mate to cheer. 

At once 'tis music — and 'us love. 



And art thou come ? and a*t thou true ? 

welcome, dear to love and me! 
And let us all our vows renew 

Along the flow'rj oj^aKs of Cree. 



CCXXIV. ' 

ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 

Tune—" O'er the hills,'' ^c. 

["The last evening," 29th of August, 1794, "as I iva« 
straying out," says Burns, "and thinking of ' Oar th# 
hills and far away,' I spun the following stanzas for it 
I was pleased with several lines at first, but I own now 
that it appears rather a flimsy business. I give you lea vt 
to abuse this song, but do it in the spirit of Christiai 
naeekness." 



How can my poor hf irt be glad^ 
When absent from m/ sailor lad ? 
How can I the thought forego, 
He's OB ** *oas to meet the foe? 




ON THE SEA AND FAR AWAY. 



..F ROBEKT BUENS. 29 


Let me wander, let me rove, 


Ca' them whare the buruie roweo 


Still my heart is with my love : 


My bonnie dearie ! 


Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, 


Hark the mavis' evening sang 


Are with him that's far away. 


Sounding Cluden's woods ainanffi 


On the seas and far away, 


Then a faulding let us gang 


On stormy seas and far away ; 


My bonnie dearie 


Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, 




Are ay with him that's far away. 


II , 




We'll gae down by Cludeu side, 


II. 


Thro' the hazels spreading wide. 


When in summer's noon I faint, 


O'er the waves that sweetly glide 


As weary flocks arouml me pant. 


To the moon sae clearly. 


Haply in this scorching sun 




My saiLr's thund'ring at his gun: 


III. 


Bullets, spare my only joy! 


Yonder Cluden's silent towers. 


Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 


Where at moonshine midnight hours, 


Fate, do with me what you may — 


O'er the dewy bending flowers. 


Spare but him that's far away I 


Fairies dance so cheery. 


III. 

At the starless midnight hour. 


IV. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 


When winter rules with boundless power: 


Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear. 


As the storms the forest tear. 


Nocht of ill may come thee near. 


And thunders rend the howling air, 


My bonnie dearie. 


Listening to the doubling roar, 




Surging on the rocky shore, 


V. 


All I can — I weep and pray. 
For his weal that's far away. 


Fair and lovely as thou art, 


Thou hast stown my very heart; 




I can die — but canna part — 


fl IV. 


My bonnie dearie ! 


Peace, thy olive wand extend, 


Ca' the yowes to the knowes. 


And bid wild war his ravage end. 


Ca' them whare the heather growes ; 


Man with brother man to meet, 


Ca' them where the burnie rowes— 


And as a brother kindly greet : 


My bonnie dearie ! 


Then may heaven with prosp'rous gales, 
Fill my sailor's welcome sails. 






To my arms their charge convey — 


CCXXVI. 


My dear lad that's far away. 




On the seas and far away 


SHE SAYS SHE LOVES ME BEST OF A . 


On stormy seas and far away ; 


Tune—" Onaffh'3 Waterfall.'' 


Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, 
Are ay with him that's far away. 


[The lady of the flaxen ringlets has already been No- 
ticed : she is described in this soup: with the accunisy '.r, 




a painter, and more than the usual elegance of one , H !l 




needless to add her name, or to say how fine her forn 




and how resistless her smiles.] 


CCXXV. 




CA' THE YOWES. 


I. 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 


(^UuTTii formed -Aia song upon an old lyne, an amended 


Her eyebrows of a darker hue. 


rersion of which _e had previously communicated to the 


Bewitchingly o'er-arching 


Museum: he was lonU of musing in llie sliadow of Lin- 


Twa laughin' een o' bonnie blue. 


idiD U wers, and on the banks of C.uden Water.] 






Her smiling sae wyling, 


I. 


Wad make a wretch forget his woe; 


Ca' the yowes to the knowes. 


What pleasure, what tiensure. 


Ca' them whare the heather growes. 


Unto these rosy lips to grow • 



291 



THE POETICAL Wo±iKS 



Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 
When first her bonnie face I saw , 

\iid ay my Chloris' dearest charm, 
She says she lo'es me best of a'. 



Like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ankle is a spy, 
Betraying fair proportion, 

Wad mak a saint forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form and gracefu' air; 
Bk feature — auld Nature 

Declar'd that she could do nae mair: 
Hers are the willing chains o' love. 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law; 
A.nd ay my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

III. 
Let others love the city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
Gie me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve, and rising moon; 
Fair beaming, and streaming, 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling. 

The amorous thrush concludes his sang; 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and love, 

And say thou lo'es me best of a'? 



CCXXVII. 



SAW YE MY PHELY. 

[quasi dicat phillis.] 

Tune — ^^When she came ben she bobbit" 

[The despairing swain in this song was Stephen 
'Jiarke, musician, and tlie young lady whom he per- 
»»:aJed Burns to accuse of inconstancy and coldness wag 

f'X^ .1* M'Murdo ] 

I. 
SAW ye my dear, my Phely? 
C saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love I 
She winna come hame to her Willy. 

II. 
What says she, ray dearest, my Phely ? 
What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
^he lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot 
And for ever disowns thee, her WMly. 



had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely I 
had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy. 



CCXXVIII. 

HOW LANG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT. 

Tune — " Cauld Kail in Aberdeen,** 

[On comparing this lyric, corrected for Thomson, witk 
that in the Museum, it will be seen that the former ha« 
more of elegance and order : the latter quite as much 
nature and truth : but there is less of the new tiian of thi 
old in both.] 

I. 

How lang and dreary is the night. 

When I am frae my dearie ; 
I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 
Though I were ne'er sae weary. 

For oh ! her lanely nights are lang ; 

And oh ! her dreams are eerie ; 
And oh, her widow'd heart is sair, 
That's absent frae her dearie. 



When I think on the lightsome days 
I spent wi' thee my dearie ; 

And now what seas between us roar— • 
How can I be but eerie? 



How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ; 

The joyless day how dreary! 
It was na sae ye glinted by. 
When I was wi' my dearie. 

For oh ! her lanely nights are lan^ ; 

And oh, her dreams are eerie ; 

And oh, her widow'd heart is sair, 

That's absent frae her dearie- 



CCXXIX. 

LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN 

Tune — " Duncan Gray.'* 

[" These English songs," thus complains the poet, in 

the letter which conveyed this lyri'; to Thomson, " gra> 

I vei me to death: 1 have not thai command of the lu 



OF ROBERT i^UR.S-y. 



290 



|uage that I have of ray native tongue. I have been at 
Duncan Gray,' tu dress it in English but all I can do is 
eplorably stupid. Fur instance:"] 



Lkt not woman e'er complain 

Of inconstancy in love ; 
Let not woman e'er complain 

Fickle man is apt to rove : 
Lock abroad through nature's range, 
Nature's mighty law is change ; 
Ladies, would it not be strange, 

Man should then a monster prove ? 



Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow: 
Sun and moon but set to rise, 

Round and round the seasons go : 
Why then ask of silly man 
To oppose great nature's plan ? 
We'll be constant while we can — 

You can be no more, you know. 



ccxxx. 



THE LOYER'S MORNING SALUTE 
TO HIS MISTRESS. 

Tnne—'' Deil tak the Wars.'' 

[IJurns has, ic one of his letters, partly intimated that 
Ihis morning salutation to Chloris was occasioned by 
Bitting till the dawn at the punch-bowl, and walkii^ 
past her window on his way home.] 

I. 

Bleep'st thou, or wak'stthou, fairest creature ? 

Rosy Morn now lifts his eye, 
Nttinbering ilka bud which nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now through the leafy woods, 

Aiid by the reeking floods, 
Wkd nature's tenants freely, gladly stray; 

The lintwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower ; 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. 



PhcebuH gilding the brow o' morning. 
Banishes ilk darksome shade, 

Ffttare gladdening and adorning ; 
Such to me my lovely maid. 



When absent frae my fair. 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky i 

But when, in beauty's light. 

She meets my ravish'd sight. 

When thro' my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart — 
'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy> 



CCXXXI. 



CHLORIS. 
Air — ** My lodging is on the cold ground.*' 

[The origin of this song is thus told by Burns to Thorn 
son. " On my visit the other day to my fair Chloris 
that is the poetic name of tlie lovely goddess of my inspi 
ration, she suggested an idea which I, on my return frort 
the visit, wrought into the following song." The poeti< 
elevation of Chloris is great : she lived, when aer charm, 
faded, in want, and died all but destitute."] 



I. 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves. 

The primrose banks how fair : 
The balmy gales awake the flowers, 

And wave thy flaxen hair. 

II. 

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings ; 
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween, 

To shepherds as to kings 



Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha' : 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blythe, in the birken shaw. 

IV. 

The princely revel may survey 
Our rustic dance wi' scorn ,• 

But are their hearts as light as ouiB, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 



The shepherd, in the flow'ry glen. 
In shepherd's phrase will wc<3 : 

The courtier tells a finer tale — 
But is his heart as true. ? 



296 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 
That spotless breast o' thine : 

The courtier's gems may witness love — 
But 'tis na love like mine. 



ccxxxn. 

C H L E. 

Air — " Daintie Davie J* 



[Burns, despairing to fit some of the airs with such 
p^erses of original manufacture as Thomson required, for 
the English part of his collection, took the liberty of be- 
Btowing a Southron dress on some genuine Caledonian 
lyrics. The origin of this song may be found in Ram- 
lay's miscellany : the bombast is abated, and the whole 
raujh improved.] 



It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay, 
One morning, by the break of day. 

The youthful charming Chloe 
From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flowery mead she goes, 
The youthful charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she by the dawn, 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 
The youthful charming Chloe. 



The feather'd people you might see, 
Perch'd all around, on every tree. 
In notes of sweetest melody 

They hail the charming Chloe ; 
Till painting gay the eastern skies, 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes 
Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she by the dawn, 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 



CCXXXIII. 



LASSIE Wr THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS. 

Tune — " RothemurcMs Rarity 

[«« Conjugal love," sn :s the poet. " is a passion which 
deeply feel and highly venerate : but somehow it does 



not make such a figure in poesie as that other species oi 
the passion, where love is liberty and nature law. Ma« 
sically speaking, the first is an instrument of which thj 
gamut is scanty^and confined, but the tones inexpressiblii 
sweet, while the last has powers equal to all the intel 
lectual modulations of the human sou!." It must b« 
owned that the bard Could render very pretty reanuLJi fo 
his rapture about Jean Lorimer.] 

I. 
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks ? 
Wilt thou be my dearie, ? 
Now nature deeds the flowery lea, 
And a' is young and sweet like thee ; 
wilt thou share its joy wi' me, 
And say thoul't be my dearie, ? 

II. 

And when the welcome simmer shcwei 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower. 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower 
At sultry noon, my dearie, 



When Cynthia lights wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way ; 
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 
And talk o' love, my dearie, 0. 



And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest • 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie, 0. 
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? 
Wilt thou be my dearie, ? 



CCXXXIV. 
FAREWELL, THOU STREAM. 

Air — " Nancy's to the greenwood gane.*^ 

[This song was written in November, 1794. Thom»o« 
pronounced it excellent.] 

I. 
Farewell, thou stream that windinfj flows 

Around Eliza's dwelling! 
mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes 

Within my bosom swelling : 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



29^ 



Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain, 
And yet in secret languish, 

To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, 
Nor dare disclose my anguish. 



Lote 8 veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 

I fain my griefs would cover ; 
The bu-stiug sigh, th' unweeting groan, 

Betray the hapless lover. 
J know then doom'st me to despair. 

Nor wiU, nor canst relieve me ; 
Bit oh, Eliza, hear one pra3'er — 

For pity's sake forgive me ! 



The music of thy voice I heard, 

Nor wist while it enslav'd me; 
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 

'Till fears no more had sav'd me: 
The unwary sailor thus aghast, 

The wheeling torrent viewing; 
'Mid circling horrors sinks at last 

In overwhelming ruin. 



ccxxxv. 

PHILLT, HAPPY BE THAT DAY. 

Tune—" The Sow's Tail." 

["This morning" (19th November, 1794), "though a 
keen blowing frost," Burns writes to Thomson, " in my 
walk before breakf;ist I finished my duet : whether I 
bave uniformly succeeded, I will not say: but here it is 
fcr vou, though it is not an hour old."] 

HE. 

Philly, happy be that day. 
When roving through the gather'd hay, 
My youthfu' heart was stown away, 
And by thy charms, my Philly. 



WiLj, a;: I bless the grove 
Where first I own'd my maiden love. 
Whilst th- u didst pledge the powers above, 
To be uiy ain dear Willy. 



As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear. 
Bo ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly. 



SHB. 

As on the brier the budding rose 
Still richer breathes and fairer blows 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my Willy. 



The milder sun and bluer sky 
That crown my harvest cares wi' joy. 
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 
As is a sight o' Philly. 



The little -swallow's wanton wing, 
Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring, 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, 
As meeting o' my Willy. 



The bee that thro' the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower, 
Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, 
Upon the lips o' Philly. 

SHE. 

The woodbine in the dewy weet 
When evening shades in silence meet, 
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss o' Willy. 



Let Fortune's wheel at random rin, 
And fools may tyne, and knaves may win 
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane. 
And that's my ain dear Philly. 



What's a' joys that gowd can gie? 
I care nae wealth a single flie ; 
The lad I love's the lad for me. 
And that's my ain dear Willy. 



CCXXXVT. 

CONTENTED WP LITTLE. 

Tune — " Lumps o' Pudding." 

[Burns was an admirer of many songs which th© mm, 
critical rind fastidious regarded as rude and homely 
"Todlin Hame" he called an unequalled composition (oi 
wit and humour, and " Andre w»' his cuttv Gao " iht 



198 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



work of a master. In the same letter, where he records 
thase sentiments, he writes his own inimitable song, 
'< ( ontented wi' Little."] 



Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' oair, 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
t g?e them a skelp, as they're creepin alang, 
W ' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish 

sang. 

II. 
I whjles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought ; 
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught : 
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch, 
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch 

dare touch. 



A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa*, 
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' : 
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past ? 



Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her 

way; 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae : 
Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure or 

pain ; 
My warst word is — " Welcome, and welcome 

again !" 



CCXXXVII. 



CANST THOU LEAVE ME THtJS. 

Tune— " i^oy's Wife.'' 

[WherilTurns transcribed the following sonjr for Thom- 
lon, on the '20th of November, 1794, he added, • Well ! I 
ihiak this, to be d(me in t\vo or three turns across ray 
room, and vith two or three pinches of Irish blackguard, 
Is not ijo f;ir amiss You see I am resc''^ed to have my 
quantum of applause from somebody." The poet in this 
song cf-'implains of the coldnes? of Mrs. Riddel: the lady 
•pltsd ^r a strain equally tender '-nd forgiving.] 



Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Well thou know'st my aching heart — 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity ? 
In this thy plighted, fond regard, 
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy? 
Is this thy faithful swain's reward — 
An aching, broken heart, my Katy I 



Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy I 
Thou may'st find those will love thee de3U^— 
But not a love like mine, my Katy ! 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? 
Well thou know'st my aching heart— 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity 7 



CCXXXVIII. 
MY NANNIE'S AWA. 

Tune — '■^ There'll nevei be peace" 

[Clarinda, tradition avers, was the inspirer of thii 
song, which the poet composed in December, 1794, foi' 
the work of Thomson. His thoughts were often in Edin- 
burgh : on festive occasions, when, as Campbell beauti- 
fully says, "The wine-cup shines in iight,",he seldonj 
forgot to toast Mrs. Mac] 



Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays, 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the 

braes. 
While birds warble welcome in ilka green shawj 
But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa 1 



The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands 

adorn. 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; 
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, 
They mind me o' Nannie — and Nanny's awa I 



Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the 

lawn, ^ 
The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn, 
And thou mellow mavis that hails the night fa\ 
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa I 



Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow ani gray, 
And soothe me with tidings o' nature's decay : 
The dark dreary winter, and wild driving snavf, 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa I 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



21H 



CCXXXIX. 
U WHA IS SHE THAT LOVES ME. 

Tune — '■'■Morag^ 

[•' Phis song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "is said, in 
r. omson's collection, to have been written for that work 
•J Burns: but it is not included in Mr. Cunningham's 
.Cition." If sir Harris would be so good as to look at 
p^gft 245, vol. v., of Cunningham's edition of Burns, he 
n 'li find the soig : and if he will look at page 28, and 
pare 193 of vol. III. of his own edition, he will find that 
be has not committed the error of which he accuses his 
feilow-editor, for he has inserted the same song twice. 
The same may be said of the song to Chloris, which Sir 
Harris has printed at page 31-2, vol. II., and at page 189, 
7ol. Ili., and of " Ae day a braw wooer came down the 
lang glen," which appears both at page 224 of vol. II., 
ind t page 183 of vol. III.] 

I. 

WHA is she that lo'es me, 

And has my heart a-keeping ? 
sweet is she that lo'es me, 
As dews of simmer weeping, .. 
In tears the rose-buds steeping ! 
that's the lassie of my heart, 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
that's the queen of womankind, 
And ne'er a ane to peer her. 



If thou shalt meet a lassie 

In grace and beauty charming, 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 

Erewhile thy breast sae warming 
Had ne'er ?'C powers alarming. 



If thou hadst heard her talking, 
And thy attentions plighted. 

That ilka body talking, 

But her by thee is slighted. 
And thou art all delighted. 



If thou hast met this fair one ; 

When frae her thou hast parted. 
If e-^ery other fair one. 

But her, thou hast deserted, 
And thou art broken-hearted; 

that's the lassie o' my heart. 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
O that's the que°n o' womankina. 
And ne'er a ane to peer her. 



CCXL 



CALEDONIA. 

Tune — ** Caledonian HunCs Delight." 

[There is both knowledge of history and eleganc« oi 
allegory in this singular lyric: it was first printed t| 
Currie.] 



Theeb was once a day — but old Time then waf 
young — 
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, 
From some of your northern deities sprung, 
(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's 
divine ?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 
To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she 
would : 
Her heav'nly relations there fixed her reign. 
And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it 
good. 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, 

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew ; 
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore 
"Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter 
shall rue !" 
With tillage or pasture at times she would 
sport, 
•To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling 
ccrn ; 
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, 
Her darling amusement, the hounds and th« 
horn. 



Lang quiet she reign'd ; till thitherward steera 

A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand : 
Reputed, successive, for many long years, 

They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the 
land : 
Their pounces were murder, and terror thoil 
cry. 

They'd conquer'd aud ruin'd a world beside; 
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly— 

The daring invaders they fled oi* they died. 



The fell harpy-raven took wing from the north,- 
The scourge of the seas, and the dread ol thu 
shore ; 

The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth 
To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gorei 



800 



THE POETICAL WOEKS 



O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail' d, 
No arts could appease them, no arms could 
repel ; 

But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, 
As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. 



The Cameleon-sai age disturbed her repose, 

"With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife ; 
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose, 

And robb'd him at once of his hope and his 
life: 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver 
flood: 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 



Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free, 
Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : 

For brave Caledonia immortal must .be ; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : 

Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose. 
The upright is Chance, and old Time is the 



But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ; 

Then ergo, she'll match them, and match 
them always. 



CCXLI. 
LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LASS. 

Tune — '* Cordwainer's March." 

[The air to which these verses were written, is com- 
B<-.iily played at the Saturnalia of the shoemakers on 
iJQg Crispin's day. Burns sent it to the Museum.] 

I. 

d LAY thy loof in mine, lass, 
Tn mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 
Anu swear on thy white hand, lass, 

Ihat thou wilt be ray ain. 
A. slave to love's unbounded sway, 
fie aft has wrought me meikle wae ; 
But now he is my deadly fae, 

Unless thou be my ain. 



Tnore's monie a lass has broke my rest, 
That for a blink I hae lo'ed best ; 
But thou art queen within my breast, 
For ever to remain. 



lay thy loof in mine, lass, 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 
And swear on thy white hand, Iftsa, 
That thou wilt be my ain, 



CCXLH. 

THE FETE CHAMPETRB. 

Tune — '* Killiecrankie.*'* 

[Written to introduce the name of Cunningharae, 0( 
Enterkin, to the pulilic. Tents were erected on tl. 
banks of Ayr, decorated with shrubs, and strewn witl 
flowers, most of the nnmes of note in the district wer« 
invited, and a splendid entertainment took place; but na 
dissolution of parliament followed as was expected, ard 
the Lord of Enterkin, who was desirous of a seatamorg 
the " Commons," poured out his wine in vain.] 



WHA will to Saint Stephen's house, 

To do our errands there, man ? 
wha will to Saint Stephen's house, 

0' th' merry lads of Ayr, man ? 
Or will we send a man-o'-law t 

Or will we send a sodger ? 
Or him wha led o'er Scotland a' 

The meikle Ursa-Major? 



Come, will ye court a noble lord, 

Or buy a score o' lairds, man? 
For worth and honour pawn their word^ 

Their vote shall be Glencaird's, man? 
Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine, 

Anither gies them clatter ; 
Anbank, wha guess'd the ladies' taste, 

He gies a Fete Champetre. 



When Love and Beauty heard the ne^s, 

The gay green-woods amang, man ; 
Where gathering flowers and busking boweri 

They heard the blackbird's sang, man ; 
A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss. 

Sir Politicks to fetter. 
As theirs alone, the patent-bliss 

To hold a Fete Champetre. 

IV. 

Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing, 
O'er hill and dale she flew, man ; 

Ilk wimpiing burn, ilk crystal springy 
Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man : 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



301 



She summon'd every social sprite 
That sports by wood or water, 

On th' bonny banks of Ayr to meet, 
And keep this Fete Champetre. 



Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew, 

Were bound to stakes like kye, man ; 
And Cynthia's car, o' silver fu', 

Clamb up the starry sky, man ; 
Peflected beams dwell in the streams, 

Or down the current shatter ; 
The western breeze steals thro' the tree^ 

To view this Fete Champetre. 

VI. 

How many a robe sae gaily floats ! 

What sparkling jewels glance, man! 
To Harmony's enchanting notes, 

As moves the mazy dance, man. 
The echoing -wood, the winding flood, 

Like Paradise did glitter. 
When angels met, at Adam's yett, 

To hold their Fete Champetre. 

VII. 

When Politics came there, to mix 

And make his ether-stane, man ! 
He circled round the magic ground. 

But entrance found he nane, man : 
He blush'd for shame, he quat his name, 

Forswore it, every letter, 
Wi' humble prayer to join and share 

This festive Fete Champetre. 



CCXLIII. 

HERE'S A HEALTH. 

Tune — '•^Here^s a health to them thafs awa." 

[The Charlie of this song was Charles Fox; Tammie 
iras Lord Erskine ; and M'Leod, the maiden name of the 
Countess of Loudon, was then, as now, a name of iuflu- 
ime both in the Highlands and Low.ands. The buff and 
■>itie of the Whigs had triumphed over the white rose of 
f icotitisra in the heart of Burns, when he wrote these 
•erses.l 



Hep.e's a health to them that's awa. 
Here's a health to them that's awa ; 
And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, 
May never guid luck be their fa' ! 



It's guid to be merry and wise, 
It's guid to be honest and true, 
It's guid to support Caledonia's cause. 
And bide by the bufi" and the blue. 



Here's a health to them that's awa. 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 

Here's a health to Charlie the chief of th« olaB| 

Altho' that his band be sma'. 

May liberty meet wi' success ! 

May prudence protect her frae evil ! 

May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, 

And wander their way to the devil I 

III. 
Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa ; | 

Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland laddi«^ 
That lives at the lug o' the law I 
Here's freedom to him that wad read. 
Here's freedom to him that wad write ! 
There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should 

be heard. 
But they wham the truth wad indite. 

IV. 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 
Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth 

gowd, 
Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw ! 
Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa ; 
And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause. 
May never guid luck be their fa' ! 



CCXLIV. 

IS THERE, FOR HONEST PO- 
VERTY. 

Tune— "-For a' that, and A' that'* 

[In this noble lyric Burns has vindicated (he natsul 
right of his species. He modf<rtly says to Fh oiKscn, ' I 
do not give you this song for your book, let -nerely by 
way of vive la bagatelle; for the piece iS real.y nv>t 
poetry, but will be allowed to be two or tliree jretty 
good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme." Tiiunifco" 
took the song, but hazarded no praise.] 

I. 
Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a' that^ 



502 THE POETICAL WOKKS 


The coward-slave we pass him by, 


looks and elegant forms of very indifferent chvncteni 


We dare be poc r for a' that ! 


lend a lasting lustre to painting and poetry.] 


For a' that, and a* that, 


I. 


Our toils obscure, and a' that ; 


Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-bursi, 


The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 


And blithe awakes the morrow ; 


The mm's the gowd for a' that! 


But a' the pride o' spring's return 


II. 


Can yield me nocht but sorrow. . 


What tho' on hamely fare we dine. 


II. 


Wear hoddin gray, and a' that ; 


I see the flowers and spreading trees 


Gle fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 






I hear the wild birds singing ; 


A man's a man, for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 


But what a weary wiglit can please, 
And care his bosom wiinging ? 


Their tinsel show, and a' that; 




The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 


III. 


Is king o' men for a' that ! 


Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, 


III. 


Yet dare na for your anger ; 




But secret love will break my heart, 


Ye see yon birkie, ca'd — a lord, 
Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; 


If I conceal it langer. 


Though hundreds worship at his word, 


IV. 


He's but a cooffor a' that: 


If thou refuse to pity me, 


For a' that, and a' that, 


If thou shalt love anither, 


His riband, star, and a' that, 


When yon green leaves fade frae the tree> 


The man of independent mind. 


Around my grave they'll wither. 


He looks and laughs at a' that. 

IV. 




A king can make a belted knight, 




A marquis, duke, and a' that. 




But an honest man's aboon his might, 


CCXLVI. 


Guid faith, he maunna fa' that I 




For a' that, and a' that, 


LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET. 


Their dignities, and a' that, 


Tune — " Let me in this ae niffht." 


The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth. 




Are higher ranks than a' that. 


[The thoughts of Burns, it is said, wandered to the fait 




Mrs. Riddel, of Woodleigh Park, while he composed thil 




song for Thomson. The idea is taken from an old lyrio, 


V. 


of more spirit than decorum.] 


Then let us pray that come it may— 




As come it will for a' that — 


I- 


That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth. 


Lassie, art thou sleeping yet, 


May bear the gree, and a* that ; 


Or art thou waking, I would wit ? 


For a' that, and a' that, 


F-or love has bound me hand and foot, 


It 4 comin' yet for a' that, 


And I would fain be in, jo. 


That man to man, the warld o'er. 


let me in this ae night. 


Sha:* brothers be for a' that I 


This ae, ae, ae night ; 


, 


For pity's sake this ae night. 




rise and let me in, jo I 

II. 
Thou hear'st the winter wind and weetf 


CCXLV. 


CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD. 


Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet: 


iCraigie-burn Wood was written for George Thomson : 


Tak pity on my weary feet. 


ft« hieroine was « <»an I orimer Hovr a^-ten the blooming 


And shield me frae the rain, jo. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 30!» 


III. 


CCXLVIII. 


Thp bitter bla^^t that round me blaws, 


m 


Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 


THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 


The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause 


Tune — ' Tmh about the jorum.'''* 


Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 


[This national song was composed in April, 1795. Thi 


let me in this ae night, 


poet had been at a public meeting, where he was lesa 


This ae, ae, ae night ; 


joyous than usual : as something had been expected fvota 


For pity's sake this ae night. 


him, he made these verses, when he went home, and seat 
them, with his compliments, to Mr. Jackson, editor c 


rise and let me in, jo ! 


the Dumfries Journal. The original, through the iiiid- 




ness of my friend^ James Milligan, Esq., is nrw tafcrj 
me.] 




I. 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat, 




Then let the loons beware. Sir, 


CCXLVII. 


There's wooden walls upon our seas, 


TELL NA ME 0' WIND AND RAIN. 


And volunteers on shore. Sir. 




The Nith shall run to Corsincon, 


[The poet's thoughts, as rendered in the lady's answer, 


And Criffel sink in Solway, 


are, at all events, not bonowed from the sentiments ex- 




prsEs^d by Mrs. Riddel, aLuded to in song CCXXXVII.; 


Ere we permit a foreign foe 


kJ3*jf. she .s tender and forgiving: here she is stern and 


On British ground to rally! 


>o.i.l 






II. 


I. 


let us not, like snarling tykes, 


TELL na me o' wind and rain, 


In wrangling be divided ; 


Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain ! 


Till slap come in an unco loon 


Gae back the gate ye cam again, 


And wi' a rung decide it. 


I winna let you in, jo. 


Be Britain still to Britain true. 


T tell you now this ae night, 


Amang oursels united ; 


This ae, ae, ae night, 


For never but by British hands 


And ance for a' this ae night. 


Maun British wrangs be righted 1 


I winna let you in, jo ! 


III. 


II. 


The kettle o' the kirk and state. 


The snellest blast, at mirkest hours. 


Perhaps a clout may fail in't; 


That round the pathless wand'rer pours. 


But deil a foreign tinkler loon 


Is nocht to what poor she endures, 


Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 


That's trusted faithless man, jo. 


Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, 


Ill 


And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 


By heaven ! the sacrilegious dog 


The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, 


Shall fuel be to boil it. 


■ifow trodden like the vilest weed : 




!/et simple maid the lesson read. 


IV. 


The weird may be her ain, jo. 


The wretch that wad a tyrant own. 




And the wretch his true-boin brother, 


IV. 


Who would set the mob aboon the throne, 


The Dird that charm'd his summer-day, 


May they be damned together ! 


'!fi now the cruel fowler's prey ; 


Who will not sing, "God save the King," 


Get witlesa ^trusting woman say 


Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 


How aft tier fate's the same, jo. 


But while we sing, " God save the King,* 


I tell you now this ae night. 


We'll ne'er forget the people. 


This ae, ae, ae night ; 




ind ance for a' this ae night, 
I winna "et you in jo ! 







304 THE POETICAL WORKIS 




Can I cease to care? 


CCXLIX. 


Can I cease to languish t 


ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK. 


While my darling fair 




Is on the couch of anepaish ? 


Tune—** Where'll bonnie Ann lie.'* 




(The old song to the same air is yet remembered : but 


II. 


the humour is richer than the delicacy ; the same maybe 


Every hope is fled, 


Raid of many of the fine hearty lyrics of the elder days 


Every fear is .terror ; 


of Caledonia. These verses were composed iu May, 




I7i)5, for Thomson.] 


Slumber even I dread. 


I. 


Every dream is horror. 


STAT, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay ! 


III. , 


Nor quit for me the trembling spray ; 


Hear me, Pow'rs divine ! 


A hapless lover courts thy lay, 


Oh, in pity hear me ! 


Thy soothing fond complaining. 


Take aught else of mine. 




But my Chloris spare me I 


II. 


Long, long the night, 


Again, again that tender part, 


Heavy comes the morrow. 


That I may catch thy melting art ; 


While my soul's delight 


For surely that would touch her heart, 


Is on her bed of sorrow. 


Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 

III. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind. 






And heard thee as the careless wind ? 


CCLI. 


Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, 


CALEDONIA. 


Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 


Tune—" Humours of Glen.*' 


IV. 


[Love of country often mingles in the lyric strains ot 


Thou tells o' never-ending care ; 


Burns v/ith his personal attachments, and in few raoM 
beautifully than in the following, written for Thorascu 


0' speechless grief and dark despair : 


the heroine was Mrs. Burns.] 


For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair 




Or my poor heart is broken ! 


I. 




Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 




reckon. 




Where bright-beaming summers exalt the 






perfume ; - 




Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green brockaii^ 


CCL. 


Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow 


0\ CHLORIS BEING ILL. 


broom : 




Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, 


Tune—*' Ay waking 0." 


Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly 


[Ac old pui once popular lyric suggested this brief and 


unseen ; 


tappy song for Thomson : some of the verses deserve to 


For there, lightly tripping amang the wild! 


w r^sl 1 in remembrance. 


flowers, 


Ay waking, oh, 


A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 


Waking ay and weary; 




Sleep I canna get 


11. 


For thinking o' my dearie.] 






Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys^ 


I. 


And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 


Long, long the night, 


Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the 


Heavy comes the morrow, 


proud palace. 


While my soul's delight 


What are they?— The haunt ot the tyrant 


Is on her bed of sorrow. 


ap.d slave ! 



f)F ROBERT BURNS. 



305 



The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling 
fountains, 
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 
He wanders as free as the winds of his moun- 
tains, 
Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his 
Jean. 



CCLH. 

TWAS NA HER BONNIE BLUE EEN. 

Tune — ^^ Laddie, lie near me." 

[Though the lady who inspired these verses if >3alled 
VI:uy by the poet, such, says tradition, was not her 
name : yet tradition, even in this, wavers, when it avers 
one vviiile that Mrs. Riddel, and at another time that 
Jean Lorin jr was the heroine.] 

I. 

'TwAs na her bonnie blue een was my ruin ; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 
'Tv*»g the bewitching, sweet stown glance o' 
kindness. 



<5air do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ! 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 



Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest. 
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest 
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter — 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 



CCLIII. . 

HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS. 

Tune — ^^ John Anderson, my jo." 

[''I an\ at this moment," says Bums to Thomson, 
when ne sent him tliis Bor.g, " holding high converse with 
the Muses, and have not a word to throw away on a pro- 
saic dog, such as you are." Yet there is less than the 
poet's usuil inspiration in this lyric, for it is altered from 
an EnglisI one.] 

I. 

How cruel are the parents 
"NYho riches only prize, 



And, to the wealthy booby, 
Poor woman sacrifice ! 

Meanwhile the hapless daughter 
Has but a choice of strife ; 

To shun a tyrant father's hate. 
Become a wretched wife. 

II. 

The ravening hawk pursuing, 

The trembling dove thus flies. 
To shun impelling ruin 

Awhile her pinions tries ; 
Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retreat. 
She trusts the ruthless falconer. 

And drops beneath his feet \ 



CCLIV, 
MARK YONDER POMP. 

Tune — ** Deil tak the wars." 

[Burns tells Thomson, in the letter enclosing this song, 
that he is in a high fit of poetizing, provided he is not 
cured by the strait-waistcoat of criticism. " You see," 
said he, "how I answer your orders; your tailor cou.a 
not be more punctual." This strain in honour of Chlorif 
is original in conception, but wants the fine lyrical flow 
of some of his other compos'tions.] 

I. 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion 

Round the wealthy, titled bride ; 
But when compar'd with real passion, 
Poor is all that princely pride. 

What arf^ the showy treasures ? 

What ai"* the noisy pleasured ? 
The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art . 

The polish'd jewel's blaze 

May draw the wond'ring gaze, 

And courtly grandeur bright 

The fancy may delight. 
But never, never can come near the heart 



T3ut, did you see my dearest Chloris 

In simplicity's array ; 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, 
Shrinking from the gaze of day ; 
then the heart alarming, 
And all resistless charming. 



In Love's delightful fetters she chains the wil- 
ling soul ! 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown, 

Even Avarice would deny 

His worship'd deity, 
And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. 



COLV. 

Tins IS NO MY AIN LASSIE. 

Tune — " This is no my ain house.'''' 

f Though composed to the order of Thomson, and there- 
f( /e less likely to be the offspring of unsolicited inspira- 
hon this is one of the happiest of modern songs. When 
tfee poet wrote it, he seems to have been beside the " fair 
i^arne at whose shrine," he said, "I, the priest of the 
H'\i&, offer up the incense of Parnassus."] 

I. 

THIS is no my ain lassie, 

Fair tho' the lassie be ; 

weel ken I my ain lassie. 

Kind love is in her e'e. 

I see a form, I see a face, 

Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 

It wants, to me, the witching grace. 

The kind love that's in her e'e. 



She's bonme, blooming, straight, and tall, 
And lang has had my heart in thrall ; 
And ay it charms my very saul, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 



A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; 
But gleg as light are lovers' een, 
^ hen kind love is in the e'e. 



It may escape the courtly sparks, 
ft may escape the learned clerks ; 
But weel the watching lover marks 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
this is no my ain lassie. 
Fair tho' the lassie be ; 
weel ken I my ain lassie^ 
Kind love is in her e'e. 



ecLvi. 

NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE 
GROVE I'N GREEN. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

[Componed in reference to a love disappolntmeB* of \\ 
poet's friend, Alexander Cunningham, which aiec o?««. 
sioned the song beginning, 

" Had I a cave on some wild distant shore "]j 

I. 

Now spring has clad the grove in green 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers : 
The furrow'd waving corn is seen 

Rejoic«^ in fostering showers; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their .sorrows to forego, 
why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of woe ? 



The trout within yon wimpling bu>i* 

Glides swift, a silver dart, 
And safe beneath the shady tko-u 

Defies the angler's art : . 
My life was ance that carelijs stream, 

That wanton trout was 1 ,■ 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 



The little flow'ret's peaceful lot. 

In yonder cliflf that grows. 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot. 

Nae ruder visit knows. 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me past, 

And blighted a' my bloom. 
And now beneath the with'ring blast 

My youth and joy consume. 



The waken'd lav'rock warbling springg 

And climbs the early sky. 
Winnowing blythe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye; 
As little reckt I sorrow's power, 

Until the flow'ry snare 
0' witching love, in luckless hour, 

Made me the thrall o' care. 

V. 

had my fate been Greenland snows. 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known I 



Oy EOBExlT BUENS. 



301 



The wretch -whase doom is, *' hope nae mair." 

What tongue his woes can tell ! 
■yVithin whase bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



CCLVII. 
C BONI^IE WAS YON ROSY BRIER 

I To Jean Lorimor, the heroine of this song, Burns pre- 
Mute-:: a copy of tiirt last edition of his poems, that of 
l?-*^, wiih a dedicatory inscription, in whicn ne moral- 
ises upon her youth, her beauty, and steadfast friendship, 
tiid signs i.'-Tnself Coila.] 



BONNIE wrts yon rosy brier, 

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man, 
And bonnie she, and ah, how dear ! 

It shaded frae the e'enin sun. 



Yon rosebuds in the morning dew 
How pure, amang the leaves sae green : 

But purer was the lover's vow 

They witness'd in their shade yestreen. 



All in its rude and prickly bower, 

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair! 

But love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 



The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 

And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn,' 
Its joys and griefs alike resign. 



CCLVIII. 

FORLORN, MY LOVE, NO COM- 
FORT NEAR. 
Tune — " Let me in this ae nights 

[■'HfW do you like the foregoing?" Burns asks 
fhimsoD, after having copied this song for his collection. 
'1 have written it within this hour: bo much for the 
fised of my Pegasus : but what say you to his bottom ?"] 

I. 

FoRLOKN, my love, no comfort near, 
Far, far from thee, I wander here; 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which. I most repine, love. 



wort thou, love, but near me ; 
But near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouidst cheer me, 
And mingle sighs with ^ine, love 



Around me scowls a wintry sky, 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy • 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save m those arms of thine, love.^ 



Cold, alter' d friendship's cruel part, 
To poison Fortune's ruthless dart, 
Let me not break thy faithful heart, 
And say that fate is mine, love. 



But dreary tho' the moments fleet, 
let me think we yet shall meet I 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
wert thou, love, but near me ; 
But near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouidst cheer me. 
And mingle sighs with mine, lovo. 



CCLIX. 
LAST MAY A BR AW WOOER. 

Tune — " The Lothian Lassie^ 

[<< Gateslack," says Burns to Thomson, " is tlie uama 
of a particular place, a kind of passage among the Low 
ther Hills, on the confines of Dumfrif shire : Dalgarnock, 
is also the name of a romantic spot near the Nith, where 
are still a ruined church and burial-ground " To this, it 
may be added that Dalgarnock kirk-yard is the scent 
where the author of Waverley finds Old Mcrtality 'epair« 
iiig the Cameronian grave-stones,] 

L, 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the laifg 
glen, 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 

I said th^re was naething I hated like men. 
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe, believe mo. 
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me ! 



He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een, 
And vow'd for my love he was dying; 

I said he might die when he liked for Jean, 
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, 
The Lord for^jie me for Ifnsi 1 



508 THE POETICAL WORKS 


III. 


charming sensations of the tootliache, so have not a Vfori 


^ weel-stocked mailen— himsel' for tlie laird— 


to spare— such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of tnis air 




that I find it impossible to make another stanza to suit it.' 


And marriage aff-hand, were his proflfers : 


This is the last of his strains in honour of Ciiloris. 


, I never loot on that 1 kenn'd it, or car'd, 




Cut thought 1 may hae waur offers, waur 


I. 


offers, 


Why, why tell thy lover, 


But thought I might hae waur offers. 


Bliss he never must enjoy: 




Why, why undeceive him. 


IV. 


And give all his hopes the lie ? 


Dufc what wad ye think? In a fortnight or 




less — 


II. 


The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 


why, while fancy raptured, slumbers, 


He up the Gateslack to my black cousin Bess, 


Chloris, Chloris all the theme. 


Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her,. 


Why, why wouldst thou, cruel. 


could bear her, 


Wake thy lover from his dream ? 


Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. 

IV. 

But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care. 




CCLXI. 


I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, 


THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LAMENT. 


And wha but my fine fickle lover was there ! 




[This song is said to be Burns's version of a Gae. id 


I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 


lament for the ruinvi^hich followed the rebeliioc of tin 


1 glowr'd as V'd seen a warlock. 


year 1745 : he sent it to the Museum.] 


II. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink. 


I. 

Oh ! I am come to the low countrie. 


Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; 


Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 


My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 


Without a penny in my purse, ' 


And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, 


To buy a meal to me. 


And Yow'd I was his dear lassie. 


II. 


VII. 


It was na sae in the Highland hills, 


I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet. 


Och-on, och-on, och-rie! 


Gin she had recovered her hearin'. 


Nae woman in the country wide 


A.nd how my auld shoon suited her shauchled 


Sae happy was as me. 


feet, 




But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin', a 


III. 




For then I had a score o' kyo, 


swearin', 




But heavens ! how he fell a swearin'. 


Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 




Feeding on yon hills so high, 


vni. 


And giving milk to me. 


He begged, for Gudesake, I wad be his wife. 




Or else I wad kill him \*^i' sorrow; 


IV. 


So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-mor- 


And there I had three score o' yowes, 


Och-on, och-on, och-rie! 


row, 


Skipping on yon bonnie knowes, 


I think I maun wed him to morrow. 


And casting woo' to me. 

V. 

I was the happiest of a' the clan, 






Sair, sair, may I repine ; 


CCLX. 


For Donald was the brawest lad, 


C H L R I S. 


And Donald he was mine. 


Tune—" Caledonian Runt's Delight.'* 


VI. 


J' ! Hin at present," says Burns to Thomson, when Iw 


Till Charlie Stewart cam' at last, 


ommunicate,; these ver-es, "quite occupied with the 


Sae far to set us free ; 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



30^ 



My DoDald's arm was wanted then, 
For Scotland and for me. 



Their waefu' fate what need I tell, 
Right to the wrang did yield : 

My Donald and his country fell 
Upo» Cnlloden's field. 

VIII. 

Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Nae woman in the world wide 

Sae wretched now as me. 



CCLXII. 
TO GENERAL DUMOURIER. 

PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR. 

[Burns wrote this ""Welcome" on the unexpected de- 
'•ction of (ieneral Dumourier.] 

I. 
Fou're welcome to despots, Dumourier ; 
Tou're welcome to despots, Dumourier ; 
How does Dampiere do? 
Aye, and Bournonville, too ? 
Why did they not come along with you, Du- 
mourier ? 

II. 
I will fight France with you, Dumourier ; 
I will fight France with you, Dumourier; 
I will fight France with you, 
I will take my chance with you ; 
By my soul I'll da-ace a dance with yoU; Dumou- 
rier. 

III. 
rb<»n let us fight about, Dumourier ; 
Then let us fish* about, Dumour>er ; 
Then let us fight about. 
Till free^iom's spark is out, 
rhei. we'll ba damn'd no doubt, Dumourier. 



And dawin' it is dreary 

"When birks are bare at Yule 



bitter blaws the e'enin' blast 
When bitter bites the frost, 

And in the mirk and dreary drift 
The hills and glens are lost 



Ne'er sae murky blew the night 
That drifted o'er the hill, 

But a bonnie Peg-a-Ramsef 
Gat grist to her mill. 



CCLXIII. 

PEG-A-RAMSEY. 

Tune—" Cauld is the e'enin blast." 

{MomX cftM, 8ong is (Id : Burns gave it a brushing for 
rie Maseu'n.J 

I. 
Cault) is the e'enin' blast 
0' Boroas o'er the pool, 



CCLXIV. 
THERE WAS A BONNIE LAfeo. 

[A snatch of an old strain, trimmed up a little for iV 
Museum.] 



There was a bonnie lass. 
And a bonnie, bonnie lass, 

And she lo'ed her bonnie laddie dear : 
Till war's loud alarms 
Tore her laddie frae her arms, 

Wi' mony a sigh and tear. 

II. 

Over sea, over shore. 

Where the cannons loudly roar, 
He still was a stranger to fear; 

And nocht could him quell, 

Or his bosom assail, 
But the bonnie lass he lo'ed sae dear. 



CCLXV. 
MALLl i MEEK, MALi^^Y'S SW'^^'* 

[Burns, it is said, composed these verses, on n MiV.n 
a country girl, with her shoes and stockings ifH her ap 
walking homewards from a Dumfries fair. He jva 
struck witli her beauty, and as beautifully has he rec rd»; 
it. Tliis was his last communication to the M uiSaii..] 

I. 

Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, 
Mally's modest and discreet, 

Mally's rare, Mally's fair, 
Mally's every way complete. 



510 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



As I was walking up the street, 
A barefit maid I chanc'd to meet; 

But the road was very hard 
For that fair maiden's tender feet. 



It were mair meet that those fine feet 
Were weel lac'd up in silken shoon, 

And 'twere more fit that she should sit, 
Within yon chariot gilt aboon. 

III. 

Her yellow hair, beyond compare, 

Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck ; 
And her two eyes, like stars in skies, 

Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. 
9 Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, 

Mallj'^'s modest and discreet, 
Mally's rare, Mally's fair, 

Mally's every way complete. 



CCLXVI. 
HEY FOE, A LASS WP A TOCHER. 

Tune — ^^ Balinamona Ora.'^ 

[Communicated to Thomson, 17thof February, 1796, to 
De printed as part of the poet's contribution to the Irish 
neiodies : he calls it " a kind of rhapsody."] 

I. 

AwA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms: 
0, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
0, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 

Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, 

Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher ; 

Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher. 
The nice yellow guineas for me. 



SToir beauty's a flower, in the morning that 

blows, 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green 

knowes, 
Ili spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white 

yowes. 

III. 
And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, 
The brightest o' beauty may cloy when possest j 



But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie infc 

prest, 
The langer ye hae them ^^ the mair they'ri 
carest. 
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher. 
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher ; 
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, 
The nice yellow guineas for me. 



Tune- 



CCLXVII. 

JESSY. 

Here's a health to them thafs awa." 



[Written in honour of Miss Jessie Lewars, now Mra 
Thomson. Her tender and daughter-like attention! 
soothed the last hours of the dying poet, and if immortalitj 
can be considered a recompense, she has been rewarded. 



Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; 
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovera 
meet. 

And soft as their parting tear — Jessy 1 



Altho' thou maun never be mine, 
Altho' even hope is denied ; 

'Tis sweeter for thee despairing. 
Then aught in the world beside- 



I mourn through the gay, gaudy day, 
As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms > 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber. 
For then I am lockt in thy arms — Jessy I 

IT. 

I guess by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by the love rolling e'e ; 
But why urge the tender confession 

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree ? — Jossy ! 
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond rcTer4 
meet, 

And soft as tHeir parting tear — Jessy I 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



3ii 



CCLXVIII. 

FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKS. 

Tune — " Eothemurche." 

[Oe the 12th of July, 1796, as BuriiS lay dying at Brow, 
ID Ike :* way, liin thoughts wandered to early days, and 
iiii cong^ the .ast he was to measure in this world, was 
itsiiicatefi lo Charlotte Hamilton, the maid of the Devon.] 



Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 

And smile as thou were wont to do ? 



Full well thou know'st I love thee, dear ^ 
Could'st thou to malice lend an ear I 
1 did not love exclaim '* Forbear, 
Nor use a faithful lover so." 



Then come, thou fairest of the fair. 
Those wonted smiles, let me share ; 
And by thy beauteous self I swear, 
No love but thine my heart shall know. 
Fairest maid on Devon banks. 

Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 
Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 

And smile as thou were wont to do ? 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE, 



TO WILLIAM BURNESS. 

[This was written by Burns in his twenty-third year, 
when ley ning fiax-dressing in Irvine, and is the earliest 
of his len&.e which has reached us. It has much of the 
•cripturai deference to paternal authority, and more of 
tho Complete Letter Writer than we look for in an origi- 
n-al mittd.] 

Irvine, Dec. 27, 1781. 
HoNOUBED Sir, 
I HAVE purposely delayed writing in the hope 
that I should have the pleasure of seeing you 
on New-Year's day ; but work comes so hard 
upon us, that I do not choose to be absent on 
that account, as well as for some other little 
reasons which I shall tell you at meeting. My 
health is nearly the same as when you were 
here, only my sleep is a little sounder, and on I 
the whjle I am rather better than otherwise, 
though I mend by very slow degrees. The 
Keakness of ray nerves has so debilitated my 
Sfind, thai I dare neither review past wants, nor 
bok f'li ward into futurity ; for the least anxiety 
or perturbation in my breast produces most un- 
happy effects on my whole frame. Sometimes, 
indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are 
alightened, I glimmer a little into futurity ; but 
my principal, and indeed my only pleasurable 
employment is looking backwards and forwards 
i^ a moral and religicus way ; I am quite trans- 



ported at the thought, that ere long, perhaps 
very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the 
pains, and uneasiness, and disquietudes of thia 
weary life : for I assure you I am heartily tired 
of it ; and if I do not very much deceive my- 
self, I could contentedly and gladly resign it. 

" The soul, uneasy, and confined at home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come."i 

It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 
15th, 16th, and 17th verses of the 7th chapter 
of Revelations, than with any ten times as 
many verses in the whole Bible, and would not 
exchange the noble enthusiasm with which they 
inspire me for all that this world has to offer. 
As for this world, I despair of ever making a 
figure in it. I am not formed for the bustle of 
the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I shall 
never again be capable of entering into such 
scenes. Indeed I am altogether unconcerned 
at the thoughts of this life. I foresee that po 
verty and obscurity probably await me, aiid I 
am in some measure prepared, ani daily pre 
paring to meet them. I have but just time and 
paper to return you my grateful thanks for th« 
lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, 
which were too much neglected at the time of 
giving them, but which I hope hav^e been re- 
membered ere it is j^et too late. Present mj 
dutiful respects to my mother, and my compli 

1 Pope. Essay on Man 



S12 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



ments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir ; aud with wishing 
jrou a merry New- Year's day, I shall conclude. 
I am, honoured sir, your dutiful son, 

Robert BuRNESs. 
P. S. My meal is nearly out, but I am going 
tc borrow tin I get more. 



II. 

TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH, 

SCHOOLMASTER, 

STABLES-INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 

f J<"hn Murdoch, one of the poet's early teachers, re- 
fnovad from the west.of Scothmd to London, where he 
lived to a good old age, and loved to talk of the pious 
William Burness and his eminent son.] 

Lochlea, 15th January, 1783. 
Dear Sir, 

As I have an opportunity of sending you a 
letter without putting you to that expense 
which any production of mine would but ill 
repay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you 
that I have not forgotten, nor ever will forget, 
the many obligations I lie under to your kind- 
ness and friendship. 

I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish to know 
what has been the result of all the pains of an 
indulgent father, and a masterly teacher ; and 
I wish I could gratify your curiosity with such 
a recital as you would be pleased with ; but 
that is what I am afraid will not be the case. 
I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious 
habits ; and, in this respect, I hope, my conduct 
will not disgrace the education I have gotten ; 
but, as a man of the world, I am most miserablj'- 
deficient. One would have thought that, bred 
as I have been, under a father, who has figured 
pretiy well as un homme des affaires, I might have 
been, what the world calls, a pushing, active 
Tellow ; but to tell you the truth. Sir, there is 
hardly anything more my reverse. I seem to 
be one sent into the world to see and observe ; 
ftii 1 1 very easily compound with the knave who 
i.t'icks me of my money, if there be anything 
original about him, which shows me human na- 
ture in a difi"erent light from anything I have 
leen before. In short, the joy of my heart is 
to " study men, their manners, and their ways ;" 
and for this darling subject, I cheerfully sacri- 
fice every other consideration. I am quite in- 
lolent abcvit those great concerns that set th<N 



bustling, busy sons of care agog ; and if | hay€ 
to answer for the present hour, I am very easy 
with regard to anything further. Even tb€ 
last, worst shift of Hie unfortunate ard th« 
wretched, does not much terrify me . I know 
that even then, my talent for what counirv folka 
call " a sensible crack," when once it is saao- 
tified by a hoary head, wpuld procure me 9^ 
much esteem, that even then — I would leaia Us 
be happy. 1 However, I am under no api)re' 
hensions about that ; for though indolent, yet so 
far as an extremely delicate constitution per- 
mits, I am not lazy ; and in many things, expe 
cially in tavern matters, I am a strict econo- 
mist ; not, indeed, for the sake of the money ; 
but one of the principal parts in my composition 
is a kind of pride of stomach ; and I scorn to 
fear the face of any man living : above every- 
thing, I abhor as hell, the idea of sneaking in a 
corner to avoid a dun — possibly some pitiful, 
sordid wretch, who in my heart I despise and 
detest. 'Tis this, and this alone, that endeara 
economy to me. In the matter of books, in- 
deed, I am very profuse. My favourite authors 
are of the sentimental kind, such as Shenstone, 
particularly his " Elegies ;" Thomson ; *' Man 
of Feeling" — a book I prize next to the Bible ; 
*' Man of the World ;" Sterne, especially his 
** Sentimental Journey;" Macpherson's " Os- 
sian," c:c. ; these a;re the glorious models after 
which I endeavour to form my conduct, and 'tia 
incongruous, 'tis absurd to suppose that the man 
whose mind glows with sentiments lighted up 
at their sacred flame — the man whose heart dis- 
tends with benevolence to all the human race — ■ 
he "who can soar above this little scene of 
things" — can he descend to mind the paltry con- 
cerns about which the terrsefilial race fret, and 
fume, and vex themselves ! how the glorious 
triumph swells my heart! I forget that I am a 
poor, insignificant devil, unnoticed and un- 
known, stalking up and down fairs and mar- 
kets, when I happen to be in them, reading s 
page or two of mankind, and " catching tht 
manners living as they rise," whilst the men of 
business jostle me on every side, as an idle en- 
cumbrance in their way. — But I dare say I have 
by this time tired your patience ; so I shal? 
conclude with begging you to give Mrs. Mur- 
doch — not my compliments, for that is a mere 
common-place story ; but my warmest, kindest 

1 The last shift alluded to here Ktust be the conamo* 
of an itinerant beggar. — Cur^ie 



OF EOBERT BURNS. 



SIS 



■"•*i63 for her welfare ; and accept of the same 
for yourself, from, 

Dear Sir, yours. — R. B. 



iir. 
TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, 

WRITER, MONTROSE.' 

[Jnmes Burness. son of the poet's uncle, lives at Mont 
rone, and, as may be surmised, is now very old : fame has 
come to Ills bouse tlirough his eminent cousin Roliert, and 
dearer still through his own grandson, Sir Alexander 
Bsirnes. with wliose talents and intrepidity the world is 
well ac^ua.Ltod.] 

Lochlea, 21st June, 1783. 
Dear Sir, 

My father received your favour of the 10th 
current, and as he has been for some months 
very poorly in health, and is in his own opinion 
(and indeed, in almost everybody's else) in a 
dying condition, he has only, with great diffi- 
culty, written a few farewell lines to each of 
his brothers-in-law. For this melancholy rea- 
son, I now hold the pen for him to thank you 
for your kind letter, and to assure you, Sir, that 
it shall not be my fault if my father's correspon- 
dence in the north die with him. My brother 
writes to John Caird, and to him I must refer 
you for the news of our family. 

I shall only trouble you with a few particu- 
lars relative to the wretched state of this 
country. Our markets are exceedingly high ; 
oatrqeal 17d. and 18d. per peck, and not to be 
gotten even at that pi^ce. We have indeed been 
pretty well supplied with quantities of white 
peas from England and elsewhere, but that re- 
Bonrce is likely to fail us, and what will become 
9f us then, particularly the very poorest sort, 
Heaven only knows. This country, till of late, 
was fl DTirishing incredibly in the manufacture 
»5 silk, lawn, and carpet-weaving ; and we are 
Btill cairying on a good deal in that way, but 
»'ich reduced from what it was. We had also 
t One trade in the shoe way, but now entirely 
dnined, and hundreds driven to a starving con- 
dition on account of it. Farming is also at a 

• This gentleman (the son of an elder brother of my 
other's), when he wns very young, lost his fither, and 
laving discovered in his fnther's repositories some of my 
athei's letters, he requested that the correspondence 
n ?ht lie renewel. My father conti uied till the last year 
f bit life to foTespjud with hxs nephew, and it was 



very low ebb with us Our lands, generallj 
speaking, are mountainous and barren ; ana 
our landholders, full of ideas of farming gatheried 
from the English and the Lothians. and other 
rich soils in Scotland, make no allowance fox 
the odds of the quality of land, and conse- 
quently stretch us much beyond what in the 
event we will be found able to pay. We ara 
also much at a loss for want of proper methods 
in our improvements of farming. Necessity 
compels us to leave our old schemes, and few 
of us have opportunities of being well informed 
in new ones. In short, my dear Sir, since the 
unfortunate beginning of this American war, 
and its as unfortunate conclusion, this country 
has been, and still is, decaying very fast. Even 
in higher life, a couple of our Ayrshire noble 
men, and the major part of our knights and 
squires, are all insolvent. A miserable job of a 
Douglas, Heron, and Co.'s bank, which no 
doubt you heard of, has undone numbers of 
them ; and imitating English and French, and 
otl er foreign luxuries and fopperies, has ruined 
as many more. There is a great trade of smug- 
gling carried on along our coasts, which, how 
ever destructive to the interests of the kingdom 
at large, certainly enriches this corner of it, 
but too often at the expense of our morals. 
However, it enables individuals to make, at least 
for a time, a splendid appearance ; but Fortune, 
as is usual with her when she is uncommonly 
lavish of her favours, is generally even with them 
at the last ; and happy were it for numbers of 
them if she would leave them no ivorse than 
when she found them. 

My mother sends you a small present of a 
cheese, 'tis but a very little one, as our last year'a 
stock is sold off; but if you could fix on any cor- 
respondent in Edinburgh or Glasgow, we would 
send you a proper one in the season. Mrs. Black 
promises to take the cheese under her care so 
far, and then to send it to you by the Stirling 
carrier. 

I shall conclude this long letter with assuring 
you that I shall be very hajpy to hear from j ou, 
or any of our friends in your country, when op- 
portunity serves. 

afterwards kept up by my brother. Extracts from soma 
of my brother's letters Ic .lis cousin ;ire introduced, foi 
the purpose of exhihitii.g he poet i)efore ,ie had -.ittracted 
the notice of the public, and in liis- doc estic f tmily ra- 
ations afterwards. — Gilbert duENS. 



514 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



My fath«r sends you, probably for the last 
time in this world, his -warmest wishes for your 
welfare and happiness ; and ray mother and the 
rest of the family desire to enclose their kind 
compliments to you, Mrs. Burness, and the rest 
of j'our family, along with those of, 
Dear Sir, 
Your affectionate Cousin, 
R. B. 



• IV. 

TO MISS E. 

[The name of the lady to whom this and tl;e three sw, ■ 
ceeding letters were addressed, seems to have been 
known to Dr. Currie, who introduced thrm in his first 
edition, but excluded them from his second. They were 
restored by Gilbert Burns, without naming th» lady.] 

Lochlea, 1783. 
I VERILY believe, my dear E., that the pure, 
genuine feelings of love are as rare in the world 
as the pure genuine principles of virtue and 
piety. This I hope will account for the uncom- 
mon style of all my letters to you. By uncom- 
mon, I mean their being written in such a serious 
manner, which, to tell you the truth, has made 
me often afraid lest you should take me for 
some zealous bigot, who conversed with his 
mistress as he would converse with his minister. 
I don't know how it is, my dear, for though, 
except your company, there is nothing on earth 
gives me so much pleasure as writing to you, 
yet it never gives me those giddy raptures so 
much talked of among lovers. I have often 
thought that if a well-grounded affection be not 
really a part of virtue, 'tis something extremely 
akin to it. Whenever the thought of my E. 
warms my heart, every feeling of humanity, 
every principle of generosity kindles in my 
bres'.st. It extinguishes every dirty spark of 
KaliCK and envy which are but too apt to infest 
ae I grasp every creature in the arms of 
luriversal benevolence, and equally participate 
ffl the pleasures of the happy, and sympathize 
pith tht iL is'^ries of the unfortunate. I assure 
you, m^ atar, I often look up to the Divine Dis- 
poser of events with an eye of gratitude for the 
blessing which I hope he intends to bestow on 
e?e in bestowing you. I sincerely wish that he 
tnay bless my endeavours to make your life as 
comfortable and happy as possible, both in 
fcweeiening the rougher parts of my natural tem- 



per, and bettering the unkindly circumstances 
of my fortune. This, my dear, is a passion, ai 
least in my view, worthy of a man, and I will 
add worthy of a Christian. The sordid earth« 
worm may profess love to a woman's person, 
whilst in reality his affection is centred in hei 
pocket ; and the slavish drudge may go a-wciing 
as he goes to the horse-market to choose on« 
who is stout and firm, and as we may say of as 
old horse, one who will be a good drudge and 
draw kindly. I disdain their dirty, puny ideas. 
I would be heartily out of humour with myself 
if I thought I were capable of having so poor a 
notion of the sex, which wer6 designed to crown 
the pleasures of society. Poor devils ! I don't 
envy them their happiness who have such 
notions. For my part, I propose quite other 
pleasures with my dear partner. 

R. B. 



TO MISS E. 



Lochlea, 1783. 
My dear E. : 

I DO not remember, in the course of your ac- 
quaintance and mine, ever to have heard your 
opinion on the ordinary way of falling in love, 
amongst people of our station of life : I do not 
mean the persons who proceed in the way of 
bargain, but those whose affection is really 
placed on the person. 

Though I be, as you know very well, but a 
very awkward lover myself, yet as I have some 
opportunities of observing the conduct of others 
who are much hotter skilled in the affair of 
courtship than I am, I often think it is owing to 
lucky chance more than to good management, 
that there are not more unhappy marriages thas 
usually are. 

It is natural for a young fellow to like the ac- 
quaintance of the females, and customary foi 
him to keep them company when ccca&i3n 
serves: some one of them is more agreeable to 
him than the rest; there is something, he knows 
not what, pleases him, he knows not how, in 
her company. This I take to be what is called 
love with the greater part of us ; and I must 
own, dear E., it is a hard game, such a one as 
you have to play when you meet with such a 
lover. You cannot refuse but he is sincere, and 
yet though you use him ever so favourably, pep 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



3ia 



haps in a few months, or at farthest in a year 
or two, tbo same unaccountable fancy may make 
him as distract 3dly fond of another, whilst you 
i,re (^ite forgot. I am aware that perhaps the 
next time I ha'* the pleasure of seeing you, 
you may bid me take my own lesson home, and 
tell me that the passion I have professed for 
you is pei-haps one of those transient flashes I 
save S'een describing; but I hope, my dear E., 
you will do me the justice to believe me, when 
I assure you that the love I have for you is 
founded on the sacred principles of virtue and 
honour, and by consequence so long as you con- 
tinue possessed of those amiable qualities which 
first inspired my passion for you, so long must 
I continue to love you. Believe me, my dear, 
it is love like this alone which can render the 
marriage state happy. People may talk of 
flames and raptures as long as they please, and 
a warm fancy, with a flow of youthful spirits, 
may make th(m feel something like what they 
describe ; but f ure I am the nobler faculties of 
the mind, with kindred feelings of the heart, 
can only be the foundation of friendship, and it 
has always been my opinion that the married 
life was only friendship in a more exalted degree. 
If you will be so good as to grant my wishes, 
and it should please Providence to spare us to 
the latest periods of life, I can look forward and 
Bee that even then, though bent down with 
wrinkled age ; even then, when all other worldly 
circumstances will be indiiferent to me, I will 
regard my E. with the tenderest affection, and 
for this plain reason,, because she is still pos- 
sessed of those noble qualities, improved to a 
much higher degree, which first inspired my 
affection for her. 

" O : happy state when souls each other draw, 
When Jove ts liberty and nature law."' 

I know were I to speak in such a style to many 
a girl, who thinks herself possessed of no small 
Bbare jf sense, she would think it ridiculous ; 
but the language of the heart is, my dear E., 
she only courtship I shall ever use to you. 

When I look over what I have written, I am 
B«nsible it is vastly diff"erent from the ordinary 
Ityle of courtship, but I shall make no apology 
—I know your good nature will excuse what your 
good 'iense may see amiss. 

R. B. 

» — — — ■ 

i Pope. Eloiia to Abelari. 



VI. 



TO MISS E. 



Lochhi, 1783. 

I HAVE often thought it a peculiarly unluol 5 
circumstance in love, that though in every othol 
situation in life, telling the truth is not only th« 
safest, but actually by far the easiest way of 
proceeding, a lover is never under greater diffi- 
culty in acting, or more puzzled for expression, 
than when his passion is sincere, and his inten- 
tions are honourable. I do not think that it is 
very difficult for a person of ordinary capacity 
to talk of love and fondness, which are not felt, 
and to make vows of constancy and fidelity, which 
are never intended to be performed, if he be vil- 
lain enough to practise such detestable conduct ; 
but to a man whose heart glows with the princi- 
ples of integrity and truth, and who sincerely 
loves a woman of amiable person, uncommon re- 
finement of sentiment and purity of manners — 
to such an one, in such circumstances, I can as- 
sure you, my dear, from ray own feelings at this 
present moment, courtship is a task indeed. 
There is such a number of foreboding fears and 
distrustful anxieties crowd into m;^ mind when 
I am in your company, or when I sit down to 
write to you, that what to speak, or what to 
write, I am altogether at a loss. 

There is one rule which I have hitherto prac- 
tised, and which I shall invariably keep with you, 
and that is honestly to tell you the plain truth. 
There is something so mean and unmanly in the 
arts of dissimulation and falsehood, that I am 
surprised they can be acted by any one in so 
noble, so generous a passion, as virtuous love. 
No, my dear E., I shall never endeavour to gain 
your favour by such detestable practices. It" 
you will be so good and so generous as to adm'l 
me for your partner, your companion, your bi/- 
som friend through life, there is nothing on this 
side of eternity shall give me greater transport ; 
but I shall never think of purchasing your hand 
by any arts unworthy of a man, and I will add 
of a Christian. There is one thing, my dear, 
which I earnestly request of you, and it is this ; 
that you would soon either put an end to my 
hopes by a peremptory refusal, or cure me of my 
fears by a generous consent. 

It would oblige mew much if you would send 
me a line or two when convenient. I shall only 
add further that, if a behaviour regulaterl 
(though perhaps but very imperfoctly) by tha 



S16 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



tales of honour and virtue, if a heart devoted to 
love and esteem you, and an earnest endeavour 
to promote your happiness ; if these are quali- 
♦iies you would wish in a friend, in a husband, I 
hope you shall ever find them in your real friend, 
and sincere lover. 

R. B. 



VII. 



TO MISS E. 

Lochlea, 1783. 

I OuaHT, in good manners, to have acknow- 
le iged the receipt of your letter before this 
time, but my heart was so shocked, with the 
contents of it, that I can scarcely yet collect my 
thoughts so as to write you on the subject. I 
will not attempt to describe what I felt on re- 
ceiving your letter. I read it over and over, again 
and again, and though it was in the politest lan- 
guage of refusal, still it was peremptory; "you 
were sorry you could not make me a return, but 
you wish me," what without you I never can 
obtain, "you wish me all kind of happiness." 
It would be weak and unmanly to say that, with- 
out you I never can be happy ; but sure I am, 
that sharing life with you would have given it 
a relish, that, wanting you, I can never taste, 

Your uncommon personal advantages, and 
your superior good sense, do not so much strike 
me ; these, possibly, in a few instances may be 
met with in others; but that amiable goodness, 
that tender feminine softness, that endearing 
Bweetness of disposition, with all the charming 
offspring of a warm feeling heart — these I never 
again expect to meet with, in such a degree, it. 
this world. All these charming qualities, height- 
3ned by an education much beyond anything I 
ha\e ever met in any woman I ever dared to 
lippro ich, have made an impression on my heart 
Jaat I do not think the world can ever eflface. 
My imagination had fondly flattered myself 
w'-th a wish, I dare not say it ever reached a 
hope, that possibly I might one day call you 
miue. I had formed the most delightful images, 
and my fancy fondly brooded over them ; but 
now I am wretched for the loss of what I really 
had no right to expect. I must now think no 
more of you as a mistress ; still I presume to 
»sk to be admitted as a friend. As such I wish 
^o be allowed to wait on you, and as I expect to 



remove in a few days a little further off, and 
you, I suppose, will perhaps soon leave thil 
place, I wish to see or hear from you soon ; an(i 
if an expression should perhaps escape me, 
rather too warm for friendship, I hope you wiV 
pardon it in, my dear Miss— (pardon me tli« 
dear expression for once) * * * * 

R B. 



VIII. 
TO ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ. 

OF GLENRIDDEL. 

[These memoranda throw much light on the early days 
of Burns, and on the history of his mind and composi- 
tions. Robert Riddel, of the Friars-Carse, to wlionj 
these fragments w^ere sent, was a good man as well as a 
distinguished antiquary.] 

My Dear Sir, 

On rummaging over some old papers I lighted 
on a MS. of my early years, in which I had de- 
termined to write myself out ; as I was placed 
by fortune among a class of men to whom my 
ideas would have been nonsense. I had meant 
that the book should have lain by me, in the 
fond hope that some time or other, even after I 
was no more, my thoughts would fall into the 
hands of somebody capable of appreciating then? 
value. It sets off thus : — 

*' Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps oi- 
Poetry, &c., by Robert Burness : a man tvho 
had little art in making money, and still le&d ir 
keeping it ; but was, however, a man of some 
sense, a great deal of honesty, and unbounded 
good-will to every creature, rational and irra- 
tional. — As he was but little indebted to scho- 
lastic education, and bred at a plough-tail, hia 
performances must be strongly tinctured with 
his unpolished, rustic way of life ; but as I be- 
lieve they are really his own, it may be some 
entertainment to a curious observer of human 
nature to see how a ploughman thinks, f.nd 
feels, under the pressure of love, ambition, anx- 
iety, grief, with the like cares and passions, 
which, however diversified by the modes and 
manners of life, operate pretty much alike, 1 
believe, on all the species." 

"There are numbers in the world who do not want 
sense to make a figure, so much as an opinion of iheii 
own abilities to put them upon rocording their ouserva- 
tions, and allowing them the sfime impor^'XT'e whici 
they do to those which appear in print." — Shen8''ohb 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



sn 



" pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace 
The forms our pencil, or our pen designed ! 
Such w;>s our youthful air, and shape, and face, 
Such the soft image of our youthful mind." — Ibid. 



April, 1783. 
NotwithstaBding all that has been said against 
iCTe, respecting the folly and weakness it leads 
& young inexperienced mind into ; still I think 
i, in a great measure deserves the highest en- 
comiums that have been passed upon it. If any- 
^thing on earth deserves the name of rapture or 
transport, it is the feelings of green eighteen in 
the company of the mistress of his heart, when 
she repays him with an equal return of affection. 

Auffust. 
There is certainly some connexion between 
love and music, and poetry ; and therefore, I 
have always thought it a fine touch of nature, 
that passage in a modern love-composition: 

"As tow^ards her cot she jogged along, 
Her name was frequent in his song." 

For my own part I never had the least thought 
or inclination of turning poet till I got once 
heartily in love, and then rhyme and song were 
in a manner the spontaneous language of ray 
heart. The following composition was the first 
of my performances, and done at an early period 
of life, when my heart glowed with honest warm 
simplicity ; unacquainted and uncorrupted with 
the ways of a wicked world. The performance 
is indeed, very puerile and silly ; but I am al- 
ways pleased with it, as it recalls to my mind 
those happy days when my heart was yet honest, 
and my tongue was sincere. The subject of it 
was a young girl who really deserved all the 
praises I have bestowed on her. I not only had 
this opinion of her then: — but I actually think 
10 still, now that the spell is long since broken, 
and the enchantment at an end. 

once I lov'd a bonnie lass.' 

Lest ttj works should be thought below cri- 
ticxsm : or meet with a critic, who, perhaps, will 
not look on them with so candid and favour- 
able an eye, I am determined to criticise them 
Qjyself. 

The first distich of the first stanza is quite too 
much in the flimsy strain of our ordinary street 
tallads: and, on the other hand, the second 

' See Songs and ^sJlads, No 1 



distich is too much in the other extreme. Th< 
expression is a little awkward, and the sentl-« 
ment too serious. Stanza the second I am well 
pleased with ; and I think it conveys a fine idea 
of that amiable part of the sex — the agreeables; 
or what in our Scotch dialect we call a evrect 
sonsie lass. The third stanza has a little tf tho 
flimsy turn in it ; and the third line has rather 
too serious a cast. The fourth stanza is a very 
indifferent one ; the first line, is, indeed, all m 
the strain of the second stanza, but the rest ia 
most expletive. The thoughts in the fifth stanza 
come finely up to my favourite idea — a sweet 
sonsie lass : the last line, however, halts a 
little. The same sentiments are kept up witk 
equal spirit and tenderness in the sixth stanza, 
but the second and fourth lines ending with 
short syllables hurt the whole. The seventh 
stanza has several minute faults ; but 1 re- 
member I composed it in a wild enthusiasm of 
passion, and to this hour I never recollect it but 
my heart melts, my blood sallies, at the remem ■ 
brance. 



SepUmder. 
I entirely agree with that judicious philoso- 
pher, Mr. Smith, in his excellent Theory of 
Moral Sentiments, that remorse is the most 
painful sentiment that can embitter the human 
bosom. Any ordinary pitch of fortitude rh&y 
bear up tolerably well under those calamities, 
in the procurement of which we ourselves have 
had no hand ; but when our own follies, or 
crimes, have made us miserable and wretched 
to bear up with manly firmness, and at the sam« 
time have a proper penitent sense of our mis 
conduct, is a glorious effort of self-command. 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, 
That press the soul, or wring the iLind ir..t4i 

anguish. 
Beyond comparison the worst are those 
That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 
In every other circumstance, the mind 
Has this to say, * It was no deed of mine , 
But when to all the evil of misfortune 
This sting is added — ' Blame thy foolish self 1 
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt- 
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others , 
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us. 
Nay, more, that every iove their cause of ruin ' 



B18 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



burning hell ; in all thy store of torments, 

There's not a keener lash ! 

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 

Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 

Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 

x\nd, after proper purpose of amendment, 

Gin firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace? 

happy ! happy ! enviable man ! 

3 glorious magnau-inity of soul ! 



March, 1784, 
I have often observed, in the course of my 
Fiperience of human life, that every man, even 
the worst, has something good about him ; 
though very often nothing else than a happy 
temper'iment of constitution inclining him to 
this or that virtue. For this reason no man 
can say in what degree any other person, be- 
sides himself, can be, with strict justice, called 
wicked. Let any, of the strictest character for 
regularity of conduct among us, examine im- 
partially how many vices he has never been 
guilty of, not from any care or vigilance, but 
for want of opportunity, or some accidental cir- 
cumstance intervening ; how many of the weak- 
nesses of mankind he has escaped, because he 
was out of the line of such temptation; and, 
what often, if not always, weighs more than all 
the rest, how much he is indebted to the world's 
good opinion, because the world does not know 
all : I say, any man who can thus think, will 
Bcan the failings, nay, the faults and crimes, of 
mankind around him, with a brother's eye. 

I have often courted the acquaintance of that 
part of mankind, commonly known by the or- 
dinary phrase of blackguard's, sometimes far- 
ther than was consistent with the safety of my 
character ; those who by thoughtless prodiga- 
lity or headstrong passions, have been driven 
to ruin, Though disgraced by follies, nay 
Bometimes, stained with guilt, I have yet found 
tiaong them, in not a few instances, some of the 
Soblest virtues, magnanimity, generosity, disin- 
^rested friendship, and even modesty. 

April. 
As I am what the men of the world, if they 
knew sucn a man, would call a whimsical mor- 
tal, I have various sources of pleasure and en- 
•ojment, which are, in a manner, peculiar to 



Winter. A Dirge. Poem I. 



myself, or some here and there such other out 
of-the-way person. Such is the peculiar pleat 
sure I take in the season of winter, more thaA 
the rest of the year. This, I believe, may b« 
partly owiiJg to my misfortunes giving my min J 
a melancholy cast : but there is something even 
in the — 

«' Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste 
Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried earth," — 

which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, 
favourable to everything great and noble. There 
is scarcely any earthly object gives me more—- 
I do not know if I should call it pleasure — but 
something which exalts me, something which 
enraptures me — than to walk in the sheltered 
side of a wood, or high plantation, in a cloudy 
winter-day, and hear the stormy wind howling 
among the trees, and raving over the plain. It 
is my best season for devotion: my mind is 
wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him, who, 
in the pompous language of the Hebrew bard, 
*' walks on the wings of the wind." In one of 
these seasons, just after a train of misfortunes, 
I composed the following : — 

The wintry west extends his blast.' 

Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses, 
writ without any real passion, are the most 
nauseous of all conceits ; and I have often 
thought that no man can be a proper critic of 
love-compo«!ition, except he himself, in one or 
more instance*, have been a warm votary of thia 
passion. As I h%\^ been all along a miserable 
dupe to love, and h^^ve been led into a thousand 
weaknesses and follies bv it. for that reason I put 
the more confidence in my critical skill, in dis- 
tinguishing foppery and conceit from real pas» 
sion and nature. Whether the following song 
will stand the test, I will not pretend to say, 
because it is my own ; only I can say it was, at 
the time, genuine from the heart: — 

Behind yon hills, where Lugar fiowb.* 



March, 1784. 
There was a certain period of my life that my 
spirit was broke by repeated losses and disasters 
which threatened, and indeed effected, the utter 
ruin of my fortune. My body, too, was attacked 
by that most dreadful distemper, a hypochon- 
dria, or confirmed melancholy. In this wretched 

2 Somr XIV, 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



311 



itate, the recollection of which makes me shud- 
der, I hung mj harp ou the willow trees, ex- 
'jept in some lucid intervals, in one of which I 
joraposed the following : — 

thou Great Being ! what Thou art.^ 

April. 
The foK jwing song is a wild rhapsody, misera- 
bly if^ficient in versification ; but as the senti- 
mtu.U jre the genuine feelings of my heart, for 
Uiat reason I have a particular pleasure in con- 
Liag it c;ver. 

My father was a farmer 

Upon the Carrick border, 0.^ 

April. 
I think the whole species of young men may 
le naturally enough divided into two grand 
classes, which I shall call the ^rave.and the 
merry ; though, by the by, these terms do not 
with propriety enough express my ideas. The 
grave I shall cast Into the usual division of those 
who are goaded on by the love of money, and 
those whose darling wish is to make a figure 
in the world. The merry are the men of plea- 
sure of all denominations ; the jovial lads, who 
have too much fire and spirit to have any settled 
rule of action ; but, without much deliberation, 
follow the strong impiilses of nature : the 
thoughtlefs, the careless, the indolent — in par- 
ticular h". who, with a happy sweetness of natu- 
ral temvfcr, and a cheerful vacancy of thought, 
steals through life — generally, indeed, in poverty 
and obscurity ; but poverty and obscurity are 
only evils to him who can sit gravely down and 
make a repining comparison between his own 
situation and that of others ; and lastly, to grace 
the quorum, such are, generally, those whose 
h.^f.ls are capable of all the towerings of genius, 
and whose hearts are warmed with all the de- 
licacy of feeling. 

August 
The foregoing was to have been an elaborate 
dissertation on the various species of men ; but 
fts I cannot please myself in the arrangement 
of my ideas, I munt wait till farther experience 
and nicer observation throw more light on the 
subject. — In tl»B mean time I shall set down the 
Allowing fragment, which, as it is the genuine 



Po«Dtt fX. 



2 Song V. 



language of my heart, will enable anybody t* 
determine which of the classes I belong to 

There's nought but care on ev'ry han', 
In ev'ry hour that passes, O.s 

As the grand end of human life is to cultivati 
an intercourse with that Beikg to whom we 
owe life, with every enjoyment that rende\ig 
life delightful ; and to maintain an integritivc 
conduct towards our fellow-creatures; that so. 
by forming piety and virtue into habit, we may 
be fit members for that society of the pious and 
the good, which reason and revelation teach us to 
expect beyond the grave, I do not see that the 
turn of mind, and pursuits of such a one as the 
above verses describe — one who spends the 
hours and thoughts which the vocations of the 
day can spare with Ossian, Shakspeare, Thom- 
son, Shenstone, Sterne, &c. ; or, as the maggat 
takes him, a gun, a fiddle, or a song to make oir 
m6nd ; and at all times some heart's-dear bon- 
nie lass in view — I say I do not see that the 
turn of mind and pursuits of such an one are 
in the least more inimical to the sacred interests 
of piety and virtue, than the even lawful, bus- 
tling and straining after the world's riches and 
honours : and I do not see but he may gain 
heaven as well — which, by the by, is no mear 
consideration — who steals through the vale of 
life, amusing himself with every little flowe/ 
that fortune throws in his way, as he, who strain- 
ing straight forward, and perhaps spattering 
all about him, gains some of life's little eminen- 
cies, where, after all, he can only see and be 
seen a little more conspicuously than what, in 
the pride of his heart, he is apt to term the 
poor, indolent devil he has left behind him. 

August 
A Prayer, when fainting fits, and other alarm- 
ing symptoms of a pleurisy or some other diw 
gerous disorder, which indeed still threat *ni 
me, first put nature on the alarm : — 

thou unknown. Almighty Cause 
Of all my hope and fear !^ 

August 
Misgivings in the hour of despondency «nf 
prospect of death : — 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scenn ** 
3 Song XVII. 4 PtiemX. 6 Poem 1L 



420 



GENEEAL C0RRESP0N1>EN()E 



UGOTISMS FKOM MY OWN SENSATIONS. 

May. 
I don't well know what is the reason of it, 
but somehow or other, though I am when I have 
a mind pretty generally beloved, yet I never 
could get the art of commanding respect. — 
I imagine it is owing to my being deficient in 
what Sterne calls "that understrapping virtue 
of discretion." — I am so apt to a lapsus linyuce^ 
Ihat I sometimes think the character of a cer- 
tain great man I have read of somewhere is very 
much apropos to myself — that he was a com- 
pound of great talents and great folly. — N. B. 
To try if I can discover the causes of this 
(vretched infirmity, and, if possible, to mend it. 



August. 
However I am pleased with the works of our 
Scotch poets, particularly the excellent Ramsay, 
and the still more excellent Fergusson, yet I am 
hurt to see other places of Scotland, their towns, 
rivers, woods, haughs, &c,, immortalized in such 
celebrated performances, while my dear native 
country, the ancient bailieries of Carrick, Kyle, 
and Cunningham, famous both in ancient and 
modern times for a gallant and warlike race of 
nhabitants ; a country where civil, and parti- 
cularly religious liberty have ever found their 
first support, and their last asylum ; a country, 
the birth-place of many famous philosophers, 
soldiers, statesman, and the scene of many im- 
portant events recorded in Scottish history, par- 
ti :^arly a great many of the actions of the 
glorious Wallace, the Saviouk of his country ; 
yet, we have never had one Scotch poet of any 
eminence, to make the fertile banks of Irvine, 
the romantic woodlands and sequestered scenes 
on Ayr, and the heathy mountainous source 
and winding sweep of Doon, emulate Tay, Forth, 
Ettrick, Tweed, &c. This is a complaint I 
would gladly remedy, but, alas ! I am far un- 
equal to the task, both in native genius and 
education. Obscure I am, and obscure I must 
be, though no young poet, nor young soldier's 
oeart, ever beat more fondly for fame than 
mine — 

" And if theie is no other scene of being 
W'nore my insatiate wish may have its fill, — 
This something at my heart that heaves for room, 
My best, my dearest part, was made in vain " 



Septemhar. 
There is a great irregularity in the old Scold 
songs, a redundancy of syllables with respect 
to that exactness of accent and measure that 
the English poetry requires, but whicli glides 
in, most melodiously, with the respective tunea 
to which they are set. For instance, the fine 
old song of "The Mill, Mill, 0,'" 'to give it a 
plain prosaic reading, it halts prodigiously out 
of measure; on the other hand, the song set 
to the same tune in Bremner's collection of 
Scotch songs, which begins " To Fanny fair 
could I impart," &c., it is most exact measure, 
and yet, let them both be sung before a real 
critic, one above the biases of prejudice, but a 
thorough judge of nature,— how flat and spirit- 
less will the last appear, how trite, and lamely 
methodical, compared with the wild warbling 
cadence, the heart-moving melody of the first! 
— This is particularly the case with all those 
airs which end with a hypermetrical syllable. 
There is a degree of wild irregularity in many 
of the compositions and fragments which are 
daily sung to them by my compeers, the com- 
mon people — a certain happy arrangement of 
old Scotch syllables, and yet, very frequently, 
nothing, not even like rhyme or sameness of 
jingle, at the ends of the lines. This has made 
me sometimes imagine that perhaps it might be 
possible for a Scotch poet, with a nice judicious 
ear, to set compositions to many of our most 
favourite airs, particularly that class of them 
mentioned above, independent of rhyme alto- 
gether. 



There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting' 
tenderness, m some of our ancient ballads, 
which show them to be the work of a masterly 
hand : and it has often given me many a heart- 
ache to reflect that such glorious old bards — 
bards who very probably owed all their talontg 
to native genius, yet have described the exploits 
of heroes, the pangs of disappointment, and the 
meltings of love, with such fine strokes of 
nature — that their very names (0 how mortify- 
ing to a bard's vanity !) are now " buried among 
the wreck of things which were." 

ye illustrious names unknown ! who could 
feel so strongly and describe so well : the last, 
the meanest of the muses' train — one who, 
though far inferior to your flights, yet ayes 



1 « The Mill, Mill, O," is by All m Ramsay. 



OF ROBE'RT BUR^S. 



32i 



fonr path, and with trembling wing would 
»»ometimes soar after you — a poor rustic bard 
unknown, pays this sympathetic pang to your 
memory! Some of. you tell us, with all the 
charms of verse, that you have been unfortunate 
in the world — unfortunate in love : he, too, has 
felt the loss of his little fortune, the loss of 
friends, and, worse than all, the loss of the 
ifoman he a4ored. Like you, all his consola- 
tion was his muse : she taught him in rustic 
measures to complain. Happy could he have 
done It with your strength of imagination and 
flow of verse ! May the turf lie lightly on your 
bones ! and may ycu now enjoy that solace and 
rest which this wor^d rarely gives to the heart 
\uned to all the feelings of poesy and love ! 

September. 

The following fragment is done something in 
rmitation of the manner of a noble old Scottish 
piece, called M'Millan's Peggy, and sings to the 
tune of Galla Water. — My Montgomery's Peggy 
was my deity for six or eight months. She had 
been bred (though, as the world says, without 
any just pretence for it) in a style of life rather 
elegant ; but, as Vanbrugh says in one of his 
comedies, my "d — d star found me out" tiisrs 
too : ^-^r though I began the affair merely in a 
gaieHi j,e cceur, or, to tell the truth, which Trill 
rtcarcel}' be believed, a vanity of showing my 
parts in courtship, particularly my abilities at a 
billet-doux, which I always piqued myself upon, 
made me lay siege to her ; and when, as I always 
do in my foolish gallantries, I had fettered my- 
self into a very warm affection for her, she told 
me one day, in a flag of truce, that her fortress 
had been for some time before the rightful pro- 
perty of another ; but, with' the greatest friend- 
ship and politeness, she offered me every alliance 
except actual possession. I found out after- 
wards that "v^at she told me of a pre-engage- 
ment was really true ; but it cost me some 
heartaches to get rid of the affair. 

T have even tried to imitate in this extempore 
thirgthat irregularity in the' rhymes, which, 
when judiciously done, has such a fine effect on 
the ear. 

•*Altho' my bed were in yof muir."' 



» Song VIII. 



ai 



September. 
There is another fragment in imitation of an 
old Scotch soug, well known among the country 
ingle -sides. — I cannot tell the name, neither of 
the song nor the tune, but they are in fine unison 
with one another. — By the way, these old Scot- 
tish airs are so nobly sentimental, that when one 
would compose to them, to "south the tune," as 
our Scotch phrase is, over and over, is the readi- 
est way to catch the inspiration, and raise the 
bard into that glorious enthusiasm so strongly 
characteristic of our old Scotch poetry. I shall 
here set down one verse of the piece mentioned 
above, both to mark the song and tune I mean, 
and likewise as a debt I owe to the author, as 
the repeating of that verse has lighted up my 
flame a thousand times: — 

When clouds in skies do come together 
To hide the brightness of the sun, 

There will surely be some pleasant weathei 
When a' their storms are past and gone 

Though fickle fortune has deceived me. 
She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill; 

Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me^ 
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still. 

I'll act with prudence as far as I'm abl*> 

But if success I must never find, 
Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome, 

I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind. 

The above was an extempore, under the pres- 
sure of a heavy train of misfortunes, which, in- 
deed, threatened to undo me altogether. It was 
just at the close of that dreadful period men- 
tioned already, and though the weather haa 
brightened up a little with me, yet there has 
always been since a tempest brewing round me 
in the grim sky of futurity, which I pretty plainly 
see will some time or other, perhaps ere long, 
overwhelm me, and drive me into some doleful 
dell, to pine in solitary, squalid wretchedness.- 
However, as I hope ray poor country muse, whft, 
all rustic, awkward, and unpolished as slit ia 
has more charms for me than any other of the 
pleasures of life beside — as I hope she will not 
then desert me, I may even then learn to be, if 
not happy, at least easy, and south a sang to 
soothe my misery. 

'Twas at the same time I set about composing 
an air in the old Scotch style. — I am not musi- 

2 Alluding to the misfortunes he feelingly laments b» 
fore this ver.se. (This is the author's note.> 



322 



GENERAL CORRESPO NfDi^NCE 



3ftl scholar enough to prick down my tune pro- 
perly, so it can never see the light, and perhaps 
'tis no great matter ; but the following were the 
•erses I composed to suit it • — 

raging fortune's withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low, ! ^ 

The tune consisted of three parts^ so that the 
Above verses just went through the whole air. 

October, 1785. 

If ever any young man, in the vestibule of the 
world, chance to throw his eye over these pages, 
let him pay a warm attention to the following 
observations, as I assure him they are the fruit 
of a poor devil's dear-bought experience. — I 
have literally, like that great poet and great 
gallant, and by consequence, that great fool, 
Solomon, " turned my eyes to behold madness 
and folly." Nay, I have, with all the ardour 
of a lively, fanciful, and whimsical imagination, 
accompanied with a warm, feeling, poetic heart, 
shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship. 

In the first pla,ce, let my pupil, as he tenders 
his own peace, keep up a regular, warm inter- 
course with the Deity. * * * * 

This is all worth quoting in my MSS., and 
more than all. R. B. 



IX. 

TO MU. JAMES BURNESS, 

MONTROSE. 

[The elder Burns, whose death this Iett» intimates, 
U«B buried in the kirkyard of Alloway, with tombstone 
recording his worth.] 

Lochlea, 11 th Feb. 1784 
Deaf. Cousin, 

I WOULD have returned you my thanks for 
f^MT kind favour of the 13th of December 
Ivcmer, had it not been that I waited to give 
f ct »n account of that melancholy event, which, 
fit Bome time past, we have from day to day 
expected. 

On the 13th current I lost the best of fathers. 
Though, to be sure, we have had long warning 
of the impending stroke ; still the feelings of 
nature claim their part, and I cannot recollect 
the tender endearments and parental lessons of 

i Soiur 1] 



the best of friends and ablest of instructors, 
without feeling what perhaps the calmer dictate! 
of reason would partly condemn. 

I hope my father's friends in j'^our country 
wir not let their connexion in this place die 
with him. For my part I shall ever with plea- 
sure — with pride, acknowledge my connexioij 
with those who were alligd by the ties of blooiJ 
and friendship to a man whose memory I sbal 
ever honour and revere. 

I expect, therefore, my dear Sii , you will ni^t 
neglect any opportunity of letting ne hear from 
you, which will very much oblige, 

My dear Cousin, yours sincerely, 
R B. 



\ 



X. 



TO JAMES BURNESS, 

MONTROSE. 

[Mrs. Buchan, the forerunner in extravagance and ab. 
surdity of Joanna Southcote, after attempting to fix her 
tent among the hills of the west and the vales of the 
Nith, finally set up her staff at Auchengibbert-Hill, in 
Galloway, where sho lectured her followers, and held 
out hopes of their reaching the stars, even in *iiis life. 
She died ea^ly : one or two of her people, as she called 
them, survivefJ till within these half-dozen years.] 

3Iossgiel, August, 1784. 
We have been surprised with one of the most 
extraordinary phenomena in the moral world 
which, I dare say, has happened in the course of 
this half century. We have had a party of Pres- 
bytery relief, as they call themselves, for some 
time in this country. A pretty thriving society 
of them has been in the burgh of Irvine for 
some years past, till about two years ago, a 
Mrs. Buchan from Glasgow came among them, 
and began to spread some fanatical notions of 
religion among them, and, in a short time, 
made many converts; and, among others, thelf 
preacher, Mr. Whyte, who, upon that accc-int, 
has been suspended and formally deposed bj bii 
brethren. He continued, however, to prea<'h .e 
private to his party, and was supported, both 
he and thoir spiritual mother, as they affect tc 
call old Buchan, by the contributions of th« 
rest, several of whom were in good circum- 
stances ; till, in spring last, the populace rose and 
mobbed Mrs. Buchan, and put her out of the 
town ; on which all her followers voluntarily 
quitted the place likewise, and with such preci- 
pitation, that many of them never shut theli 



OF ROBEKT BURNrt. 



J2a 



doors beh.nd them ; one left a washing on the 
green, another a cow bellowing at the crib with- 
out food, or anybody to mind her, and after 
ieveral stages, they are fixed at present in the 
neighbourhood of Dumfries. Their tenets are 
a strange jumble of enthusiastic jargon ; among 
others, she pretends to give them the Holy Ghost 
by breathing on them, which she does with pos- 
lar«j and piactices that are scandalously inde- 
•ent they have likewise disposed of all their 
effect*, and hold a community of goods, and 
live nearly an idle life, carrying on a- great 
farce of pretended devotion in barns and woods, 
where they lodge and lie all together, and hold 
likewise a community of women, as it is another 
of their tenets that they can commit no moral 
sin. I am personally acquainted with most of 
them, and I can assure you the above mentioned 
are facts. 

This, my dear Sir, is one of the many in- 
Btances of the folly of leaving the guidance of 
Bound reason and common sense in matters of 
religion. 

Whenever we neglect or despise these sacred 
monitors, the whknsical notions of a perturbated 
brain are taken for the immediate influences 
of the Deity, and the wildest fanaticism, and 
the most inconstant absurdities, Avill meet with 
abettors «id converts. Nay, I have often thought, 
that the more out-of-the-way and ridiculous the 
fancies are, if once they are sanctified under the 
Bacred name of religion, the unhappy mistaken 
votaries are the more firmly glued to them. 

R. B. 



XI. 
TO MISS . 

[This has generally been printed among the early letters 
of Burns. Crornek thinks that the person addressed was 
the '' Peggy" of the Common-place Book. This is ques- 
tioned by Robert Chambers, wlio, however, leaves both 
name and date unsettled.] 

My dear Countrywoman, 

I ;» >i so impatient to show you that I am once 
more at peace with you, that I send you the book 
I Dientioned directly, rather than wait the un- 
certain time of my seeing you. I am afraid I 
have mislaid or lost Collins' Poems, which I 
promised to Miss Irvin. If I can find them, I 
will forward them by you ; if not, you must 
apologize for me. 

I know you will laugh at it when I tell you 
Jiat yo'U piano and you together have played 



the deuce somehow about my heart. My breast 
has been widowed these many months, and I 
thought myself proof against the fascinatin| 
witchcraft; but I am afraid you will "feelingly 
convince me what I am." I say, I am afraid, 
because I am not sure what is the matter with 
me. I have one miserable bad symptom ; when 
you whisper, or look kindly to another, it givod 
me a draught of damnation. I have a kind of 
wayward wish to be with you ten minutes by 
yourself, though what I would say. Heaven 
above knows, for I am sure I know not. I have 
no formed design in all this ; but just in the 
nakedness of my heart, write you down a mere 
matter-of-fact story You may perhaps give 
yourself airs of distance on this, and that will 
completely cure me ; but I wish you would not; 
just let us meet, if you please, in the old beateii 
way of friendship. 

I will not subscribe myself your humble ser- 
vant, for that is a phrase, I think at least fifty 
miles oft" from the heart; but I will conclude 
with sincerely wishing that the Great Protector 
of innocence may shield you from the barbed 
dart of calumny, and hand you by the covert 
snare of deceit. R. B. 



XII. 
TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND, 

OF EDINBURGH. 

[John Richmond, writer, one of the poet's Mauchhn* 
friends, to whom we are indebted for much valuable in 
formation concerning Burns and his productions — Conu«* 
was the Mauchline carrier. 1 

Mossgiel, Feb. 17, 1786. 
My dear Sir, 

I have not time at present to upbraid you 
for your silence and neglect; I shall only say 1 
received yours with great pleasure. 1 have 
enclosed you a piece of rhyming ware for your 
perusal. I have been very busy with the muiiea 
since I saw you, and have composed, among 
several others, " The Ordination," a poem on 
Mr. M'Kinlay's being called to Kilmarnock ; 
** Scotch Drink," a poem ; " The Cotter's Satur- 
day Night;" "An Address to the Devil," &c. I 
have likewise completed my poem on the 
"Dogs," but have not shown it to the world. 
My chief patron now is Mr. Aiken, in Ayr, wh« 
is pleased to express great approbation of my 
works. Be so, good as send me Fergusson, bl 



524 



GENElvAi. COKilESPONDENCE 



Connel, and I will remit you the money. I have 
no news to acquaint you with about Mauchline, 
they ai^e just going on in the old way. I have 
pome very important news with respect to my- 
self, not the most agreeable — news that I am 
Buiv. you cannot guess, but I shall give you the 
particulars another time. I am extremely 
happy with Smith ; he is the only friend I 
have now in Mauchline. I can scarcely forgive 
four long neglect of me, and I beg you will let 
me hear from you regularly by Connel. If 
you would act your part as a friend, I am sure 
neither good nor bad fortune should strange or 
alter me. Excuse haste, as I got yours but 
yesterday. 

I am, my dear Sir, 

Yours, 

R. B. 



XIII. 
TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY, 

DUMFRIES HOUSE. 

[Who the John Kennedy was to whom Burns addessed 
this note, enclosing " The Cotter's Saturday night," it is 
now, perhaps, vain to inquire : the Kennedy to whom 
Mr. Cobbett introduces us was a Thomas — perhaps a re- 
lation.] 



Mossgiel, 2>d March, 1786. 



Sir, 



I HAVE done myself the pleasure of comply- 
ing with your request in sending you my Cot- 
tager. — If you have a leisure minute, I should 
be glad you would copy it, and return me either 
the original or the transcript, as I have not a 
copy of it by me, and I have a friend who wishes 
to see it. 

"Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse."' 

ROBT. BURNESS. 



XIV. 
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, 

KILMARNOCK. 

fTiie Muirs — there were two brothers — were kind and 
•cerous patrons of the poet. They subscribed for half-a- 
aundred copies of the Kilmarnock edition of his works, 
fnd befriended him when friends were few.] 

Ilnssffiel, 20th March, 1786. 
E-EAR Sir, 
I AM heartily sorry I had not the pleasure of 

I PoemLXXV. 



seeing you as you returned through Mauchline, 
but as I was engaged, I could not be in town 
before the evening. 

I here enclose you my " Scotch Drink," and 

" may the follow with a blessing for youj 

edification." I hope, some time before we heai 
the gowk, to have the pleasure of seeing you at 
Kilmarnock, when I intend we shall have a gill 
between us, in a mutchkin-stoup ; which will be 
a great comfort and consolation to, 
Dear Sir, 

Your humble servant, 

ROBT. BURNESS. 



XV. 

TO MR. AIKEN. 

[Robert Aiken, the gentleman to whom the " Cotter'i 
Saturday Night" is inscribed, is also introduced in the 
" Brigs of Ayr." This is the last letter to which Burnt 
seems to have subscribed his name in the spelling of his 
ancestors.] 

Mossgiel, Zd April, 1786. 
Dear Sir, 
I RECEIVED your kind letter with double plea- 
sure, on account of the second flattering in- 
stance of Mrs. C.'s notice and approbation, I 
assure you I 

" Turn out the burnt side o' my shin," 

as the famous Ramsay, of jingling memory, 
says, at such a patroness. Present her my 
most grateful acknowledgment in your very 
best manner of telling truth. I have inscribed 
the following stanza on the blank leaf of Misa 
More's Work:— 2 

My proposals for publishing I am just goin^ 
to send to press. I expect to hear from you b^ 
the first opportunity. 

I am ever, dear Sir, 
Yours, 

RoBT. BUENESB. 



XVI. 
TO MR. M'WHINNIE, 

WRITER, AYR. 

[Mr. M'Whinnie obtained for Burns several snbscfip 
tions for the first edition of his Poems, of which thiB noti 
enclosed the proposals.] 

2 See Poem LXXVIII. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



S25 



Mossgiel, 17th April, 1786. 
It is injuring some hearts, those hearts that 
elegantly bear the impression of the good Cre- 
ator, to say to them you give tliem the trouble 
of obliging a friend ; for this reason, I only tell 
you that I gratify my own feelings in requesting 
your friendly offices with respect to the en- 
closed, because I know it will gratify yours to 
assist me in it to the utmost of your power. 

I have sent you four copies, as I have no 
less than eight dozen, which is a great deal more 
than I shall ever need. 

Be sure to remember a poor poet militant in 
your prayers. He looks forward with fear and 
trembling to that, to him, important moment 
which stamps the die with — with — with, per- 
haps, the eternal disgrace of, 
My dear Sir, 

Your humble, 

afflicted, tormented, 

Robert Burns. 



xvn. 

TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 

[" The small piece," the very last of his productions, 
ivhich the poet enclosed in this letter, was " The Moun- 
tain Daisy," called in the manuscript more properly 
«' The Gowan."] 



Sir, 



Mossgiel, 20th April, 1786. 



By some neglect in Mr. Hamilton, I did not 
hear of your kind request for a subscription 
paper 'till this day. 1 will not attempt any ac- 
knowledgment for this, nor the manner in which 
I see your name in Mr. Hamilton's subscription 
list. Allow me only to say. Sir, I feel the weight 
of the debt. 

I have here likewise enclosed a small piece, 
tlie very latest of my productions. I am a good 
deal pleased with some sentiments myself, as 
they are just the native querulous feelings of 
a heart, which, as the elegantly melting Tjrray 
lays, " melancholy has marked for her own." 

Our race comes on a-pace ; that much-ex- 
pected scene of revelry and mirth ; but to me it 
orings no joy equal to that meeting with which 
foiir last flattered the expectation of, 
Sir, 
Your indebted humble servant, 

P B. 



XVIII. 
TO MON. JAMES SMITH, 

MAUCHLINE. 

[James Smith, of whom Burns said ho was sma'l oi 
stature, but large of soul, kept at that time a draper', 
shop in Mauchline, and was comrade to the poet IM 
many a wild adventure.] 

Monday/ Morning, Mossgiel, 1 78C. 
Mt dear Sir, 
I WENT to Dr. Douglas yesterday, fully ■"•e* 
solved to take the opportunity of Captain Smith, 
but I found the Doctor with a Mr. and Mrs. 
White, both Jamaicans, and they have deranged 
my plans altogether. They assure him that to 
send me from Savannah la Mar to Port Antonio 
will cost my master, Charles Douglas, upwards 
of fifty pounds ; besides running the risk of 
throwing myself into a pleuritic fever, in conse- 
quence of hard travelling in the sun. On these 
accounts, he refuses sending me with Smith, 
but a vessel sails from Greenock the first of Sep- 
tember, right for the place of my destination. 
The Captain of her is an intimate friend of Mr. 
Gavin Hamilton's, and as good a fellow as heart 
could wish : with him I am destined to go 
Where I shall shelter, I know not, but I hope to 
weather the storm. Perish the drop of blood of 
mine that fears them ! I know their worst, and 
am prepared to meet it ; — 

"I'll laugh an' sing, an' shake my leg, 
As lang's I dow." 

On Thursday morning, if you can muster as 
much self-denial as to be out of bed about seven 
o'clock, I shall see you, as I ride through to Cum- 
nock. After all. Heaven bless the sex ! I fee' 
there is still happiness for me among them : 

<' O woman, lovely woman! Heaven design'd you 
To temper man ! — we had been brutes without you.- 

R. B 



XIX 
TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 

[Burns was busy in a two-fold sense at pr«n<»nt 4 
was seeking patrons in every qunrlei for his contem- 
plated volume, and he was composing lor it some of .ii| 
most exquisite poetry] 

Mossgiel, 16 May, 1796. 
Dear' Sir, 
I have sent you the above hasty copy as 1 
promised. In about three or four weeks I shall 

1 Otway. Venice Preserved. 



326 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



probably set the press a-going. I am much 
hurried at present, otherwise your diligence, so 
very friendly in my subscription, should have a 
move lengthened acknowledgment from, 
Dear Sir, 
Your obliged servant, 

R. B. 



XX. 

TO MR. DAVID BRICE. 

fE>aY\d Brice was a shoemaker, and shared with Smith 
the ci-iifidence of the poet in his love aJairs. He was 
Wtirking in Glasgow when this letter was written.] 

Mossgiel, June 12, 1786. 
Dear Brioe, 

I RECEIVED your message by G. Patterson, and 
as I am not very throng at present, I just write 
to let you know that there is such a worthless, 
rhyming reprobate, as your humble servant, 
Btill in the land of the living, though I can 
scarcely say, in the place of hope. I have no 
news to tell you that will give me any pleasure 
to mention, or you to hear. 

Poor ill-advised ungrateful Armour came 
home on Friday last. You have heard all the 
particulars of that affair, and a black affair it is. 
What she thinks of her conduct now, I don't 
know ; one thing I do know — she has made me 
completely miserable. Never man loved, or 
rather adored a woman more than I did her ; 
and, to confess a truth between you and me, I 
do still love her to distraction after all, though 
I won't tell her so if I were to see her, which I 
don't want to do. My poor dear unfortunate 
Jean ! how happy have I been in thy arms ! It 
is not the losing her that makes me so unhappy, 
but for her sake I fe^ most severely : I fore- 
see she is in the road to, I am afraid, eternal 
ruin. -5^ * * * 

May Almighty God forgive her ingratitude 
and perjury to me, as I from my very soul for- 
give her : and may his grace be with her and 
blesfl her in all her future life ! I can have no 
tteirer idea of tae place of eternal punishment 
than what I have felt in my own bi 3ast on her 
account. I have tried often to forget her; I 
have run into all kinds of dissipation and riots, 
mason-meetings, drinking matches, and other 
mischief, to drive her out of my head, but all in 
vain. And now for a grand cure ; the ship is 
Dn her waj home that is to take me out to 
famaica ; and then, farewell dear old Scotland ! 



and farewell dear ungrateful Jean ! for nevel 
never will I see you more. 

You will have heard that I am going to coia- 
mence poet in print ; and to morrow my work! 
go to the press. I expect it will be a volume of 
about two hundred pages — it is just the last 
foolish action I intend to do ; and then turn a 
wise man as fast as possible. 

Believe me to be, dear Brice, 

Your friend and well-wisher, 

R. B. 



XXI. 
TO MR, ROBERT AIKEN. 

[This letter was wrtten under great distress of mind 
That separation whi-'h Burns records in " The Lament," 
had, unhappily, takv>n place between him and Jean Ar« 
mour, and it would appear, that for a time at least a 
coldness ensued between the poet and the patron, occa« 
sioned, it is conjectured, by that fruitful subject of sor- 
row and disqmet. The letter, I regret to say, is not 
wholly hert/.] 



Sir, 



\_AyrsUre, 1786.] 



I WAS with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, 
and settled all our by-gone matters between us. 
After I had paid him all demands, I made him 
the offer of the second edition, on the hazard of 
being paid out of the first and readiest, which 
he declines. By his account, the paper of a 
thousand copies would cost about twenty-seven 
pounds, and the printing about fifteen or six- 
teen : he offers to agree to this for the printing, 
if I will advance for the paper, but this, you 
know, is out of my power ; so farewell hopes of 
a second edition till I grow richer ! an epoeha 
which I think will arrive at the payment of th« 
British national debt. 

There is scarcely anything hurt? me so much 
in being disappointed of my second edition, aa 
not having it in my power to show my gratitude 
to Mr. Ballantyne, b} ] JoJiriliing my poem of 
"The Brigs of Ayr," I Ki^uld detest myself Skf 
a wretch, if I thought ^ w-;re capable in a verj 
long life of forgetting the honest, warm, an«l 
tender delicacy with i hich he enters into my 
interests. I am some'.mes pi e;<sed with myself 
in my greateful sensa< .ons ; but I believe, on th» 
whole, I have very little merit in it, as my gra 
titude is not a virtue, the consequence of reflec- 
tion; but sheerly thd instinctive emotion of my 
heart, too inattentive to allow worldly maKimfl 
and views to settle iato selfish habits. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



3i: 



I have been feeling all the various rotations 
l.nd movements within, respecting the excise. 
Ihere are many things plead strongly against 
t ; the uncertainty of getting soon into business; 
the consequences of my follies, which may per 
haps make it impracticable for me to stay at 
kome ; and besides I have for some time been 
pmmg under secret wretchedness, from causes 
which you pretty well know — the pang of dis- 
appointment, the sting of pride, with some wan- 
dering stabs of remorse, which never fail to set- 
tle on my vitals like vultures, when attention is 
not called away by the calls of society, or the 
vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of so- 
cial mirth, my gayety is the madness of an in- 
toxicated c^'iminal under the hands of the exe- 
cutioner. AW these reasons urge me to go 
abroad, and to all these reasons I have only 
one answer — the feelings of a father. This, in 
the present mood I am in, overbalances every- 
thing that can be laid in the scale against it. * * 
You may perhaps think it an extravagant 
fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes home 
to my very soul : though sceptical in some 
points of our current belief, yet, I think, I have 
every evidence for the reality of a life beyond the 
stinted bourne of our present existence ; if so, 
then, how should I, in the presence of that tre- 
mendous Being, the Author of existence, how 
should I meet the reproaches of those who stand 
to me in the dear relation of children, whom I 
deserted in the smiling innocency of helpless 
infancy? 0, thou great unknown Power? — 
thou almighty God ! who has lighted up reason 
in my breast, and blessed me with immortality! 
— I have frequently wandered from that order 
and regularity necessary for the perfection of 
thy works, yet thou hast never left me nor for- 
saken me ! * * * ■* 

Since I wrote the foregoinq; sheet, I have seen 
something of the storm of mischief thickening 
over my foPy-devoted head. Should you, my 
friend*, my benefactors, be successful in your 
Applications for me, perhaps it may not be in 
ray power, in that way, to reap the fruit of your 
frien lly ettbrts. What I have written in the pre- 
ceding pages, is the settled tenor of my present 
resolution ; but should inimical circumstances 
forbid me closing with your kind offer, or enjoy- 
ing it only threaten to entail farther misery 

K * * * 

To tell the truth, I have little reason for com- 
plaint; as the world, in general, has been kind 



to me fully up to my deserts I was, for somi 
time past, fast getting into the pining, distrust' 
ful snarl of thf misanthrope. I saw myself alone, 
unfit for the struggle of life, shrinking at every 
rising cloud ^n the chance-directed atmosphere 
of fortune, vhile all defenceless I looked about 
in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, 
at least nt^er with the force it deserved, that 
this worla is a busy scene, and man, a creatun 
i destined for a progressive struggle ; and thai;, 
I howeve) I might possess a warm heart a«ij 
inoffensive manners (which last, by the by, waa 
rather more than I could well boast) ; still, 
morf than these passive qualities, there was 
somr^thing to be done. When all my school 
fellvws and youthful compeers (those misguided 
few excepted who joined, to use a Gentoo 
phrase, the " hallachores" of the human race) 
were striking off with eager hope and earnest 
inttat, in some one or other of the many paths 
of husy life, I was "standing idle in the market- 
place," or only left the chase of the butterfly 
from flower to flower, to hunt fancy from whim 
to whim. * * * * 

"Sou see, Sir, that if to know one's errors were 
a probability of mending them, I stand a fair 
chance: but according to the reverend West 
minster divines, though conviction must precede 
conversion, it is very far from always implying 
it. * * * * R B 



XXII. 
TO JOHN RICHMOND, 

EDINBURGH. 

[The minister who took upon him to pronounce But,, 
a single man, as he intimates in this letter, was the ]\tv 
Mr. Auld, of Mauchline: that the law of the land aid 
the law of the church were at variance on the Bubiec 1 1.-) 
one can deny.] 

3Iossgiel, %th July, 1786, 
My dear Friend, 

With the sincerest grief I road your lett >i 
You are truly a son of misfortune. I shall b« 
extremely anxious to hear from you how youi 
health goes on ; if it is in any way re-estab- 
lishing, or if Leith promises well ; in short, hovn 
you feel in the inner man. 

No news worth anything: only godly Bryan 
was in the inquisition yesterday, and half the 
country-side as witnesses against him. He si Jl 
stands out steady and denying : but proof waa 
led yesternight of circumstances Lighlr suspi 



828 



GENERAL COERESPOJ^J DENCE 



cious; almost de facto, one of the servant girls 
made faith that she upon a time rashly entered 
the house — to speak in your cant, "in the hour 
of cause." 

I have waited on Armour since her return 
home ; not from any the least view of reconcili- 
ation^^ but merely to ask for her health and — to 
jTou 1 will confess it*-from a foolish hankering 
• fondness — very ill placed indeed. The mother 
forbade me the house, nor did Jean show the 
penitence that might have been expected. How- 
ever, the priest, I am informed, will give mo a 
certificate as a single man, if I comply with the 
rules of the church, which for that very reason 
I intend to do. 

I am going to put on sack-cloth and ashes 
this day. I am indulged so far as to appear in 
my own seat. Peccavi, pater ^ miserere met. My 
book will be ready in a fortnight. If you have 
any subscribers, return them by Connel. The 
Lord stan .1 with the righteous : amen, amen. 

R. B. 



XXIII. 
TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, 

OP AYR. 

[There is a plnin account in this letter of the destruction 
01 tne iines of marriage which united, as far as a civil 
contract in a manner civil can, the poet and Jean Ar- 
mour. Aiken was consulted, and in consequence of his 
advice, the certificate of marriage was destroyed.] 

'Honoured Sir, • 
My proposals came to hand last night, and 
knowing that you would wish to have it in your 
power to do me a service as early as anybody, 
1 enclose you halt a sheet of them, I must 
consult yt u, first opportunity, on the propriety 
of sending my quondam friend, Mr. Aiken, a 
copy. If he is now reconciled to my character 
ta an honest man, I would do it with all my 
soul ; but I would not be beholden to the noblest 
being ever God created, if he imagined me to be 
a rascal. Apropos, old Mr. Armour prevailed 
«nth him to mutilate that unlucky paper yester- 
day. Would you believe it ? though I had not 
a hope, nor even a wi«h, to make her mine after 
her conduct ; yet, when he told me the names 
l7ere all out of the paper, my heart died within 
me, and he cut my veins with the news. Per- 
jitiou seize her falsehood ! 

R. B. 



XXIV. 

TO MR. DAVID BRICE. 

SHOEMAKER, (JLASGOW. 

[The letters of Burns at this sad period of his life ant 
full of his private sorrows. Had Jean Armour heen lef 
to the guidance of her own heart, the story of bei earljf 
years would have been brighter.] 

Mossgiel, 17th July, 1786. 
I HATE been so throng printing my Poems.; 
that I could scarcely find as much time as tc 
write to you. Poor Armour is come back again 
to Mauchline, and I went to call for her, and 
her mother forbade me the house, nor did she 
herself express, much sorrow for what she haa 
done. I have already appeared publicly in 
charch, and wag indulged in the liberty of stand- 
ing in my own seat. I do this to get a certi- 
ficate as a bachelor, which Mr. Auld has pro- 
mised me. I am now fixed to go for the West 
Indies in October. Jean and her friends insisted 
much that she should stand along with me in tha 
kirk, but the minister would not allow it, which 
bred a great trouble I assure you, and I am 
blamed as the cause of it, though I am sure I 
am innocent; but I am very much pleased, for 
all that, not to have had her company. I have 
no news to tell you that I remember. I am 
really happy to hear of your welfare, and that 
you are so well in Glasgow. I must certainly 
see you before I leave the country. I shall ex 
pect to hear from you soon, and am, 
Dear Brice, 

Yours,- -R. B. 



XXV. 

TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND. 

[When this letter was written the poet was skri Isif^ 
from place to place: the merciless pack of tne hiv, ^ad 
been uncoup.ed at his heels. Mr. Armour diu not wish ae 
imprison, but to drive him from the country.] 

Old Rome Forest, SOth July, 1786. 
My dear Richmond, 
My hour is now come — you and I will nevei 
meet in Britain more. I have orders within 
three weeks at farthest, to repair aboard the 
Nancy, Captain Smith, from Clyde to Jamaica, 
and call at Antigua. This, except to our friend 
Smith, whom God long preserve, is a secre* 
about Mauchline. Would you believe it? Ar 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



32B 



tuour has got a warrant to throw me in jail till 
I find security for an enormous sum. This they 
keep an entire secret, but I got it by a channel 
they little di^eam of; and I am wandering from 
one friend's house to another, and, like a true 
Bon rf the gospel, "have nowhere to lay my 
hf-ad ■' I know you will pour an execration on 
Lei 4i€ad, but spare the poor, ill-advised girl, 
for my sake ; though may all the furies that 
rend the injured, enraged lover's bosom, await 
her mother until her latest hour! I write in a 
moment of rage, reflecting on my miserable 
Bituation — exiled, abandoned, forlorn. I can 
write no more — let me hear from you by the 
return of coach. I will write you ere I go. 
T am dear Sir, 

Yours, here and heieafter, 

R. B. 



XXVI. 

T iNI R. ROBERT M U I R, 

KILMAENOCK. 

iBu '18 uever tried to conceal either his joys or his sor- 
rows: he sent copies of his fiivourile pieces, and intima- 
tions of much that befel him to his chief friends and com- 
lades — this brief note was made to carry double.] 

Mossgiel, Friday noon. 
Mr Fbiknd, my Brothkr, 

Wab,m recollection of an absent friend presses 
BO hard upon my heart, that I send him the 
prefixed bagatelle (the Calf), pleased with the 
thought that it will greet the man of my bosom, 
and be a kind of distant language of friend- 
ship. 

You will have heard that poor Armour has 
repaid me double. A very fine boy and a girl 
have awakened a thought and feelings that thrill, 
Bome with tender pressure and some with fore- 
boding anguish, through my soul. 

The poem was nearly an extemporaneous pro- 
Ju^tion, on a wagir with Mr. Hamilton, that I 
wojI^. not produce a poem on the subject in a 
g^.ve* :ime. 

If jou think it worth while, read it to Charles 
and Mr. W. Parker, and if they choose a copy 
of it, it is at their service, as they are men 
whose friendship I shall be proud to claim, both 
in this world and that which is to come. 

1 belitve all hopes of staying at home will be 
fcboitJve. but more of this when, in the latter 



part of next week, you shall be troubled witJk « 
visit from, 

My dear Sir, 

Your most devoted, 

\. B 



XXVII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

OF DUNLOP. 

[Mrs. Dunlopiwas a poetess, and had the blood of tK 
Wallaces in her veins : though she disliked the irregu 
larities of the poet, she scorned to get into a fine mora 
passion about follies wliich could not be helped, and con 
tinued her friendship to the last of his life.] 

Ayrshire, 1786. 
Madam, 
I AM truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, 
when I was so much honoured with your order 
for my copies, and incomparably more by the 
handsome compliments you are pleased to pay 
my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded that 
there is not any class of mankind so feelingly 
alive to the titillations of applause as the sons 
of Parnassus : nor is it easy to conceive how 
the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, 
when those, whose character in life gives them 
a right to be polite judges, honour him with 
their approbation. Had you been thoroughly 
acquainted with me. Madam, you could not 
have touched my d.irling heart-chord more 
sweetly than by noticing my attempts to cele- 
brate your illustrious ancestor, the Saviour of 
his Country. 

" Great patriot hero ! ill-requited cuief !"> 

The first book I met with in my early years, 
which I perused with pleasure, was, "The Life 
of Hannibal;" the next was, "The History of 
Sir William Wallace :" for several of my earl^ er 
years I had few other authors ; and man} a 
solitary hour have I stole out, after the labori- 
ous vocations of the day, to shed a tear ovcf 
their glorious, but unfortunate stories. In thcst 
boyish days I remember, in particular, being 
struck with that part of Wallace's stv.ry where 
these lines occur — 

" Syne to the Leglen wood, wnen it was ale, 
To make a silent and a safe retreat." 

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day 
my line of life allowed, and walked half a doze? 

* Thomson. 



530 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



of miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, 
with as much devout enthusiasm as ever pil- 
grim did to Loretto ; and, as I explored every 
,ien and dell where I could suppose my heroic 
countryman to have lodged, I recollect (for even 
then I was a rhymer) that my heart glowed 
with a wish to be able to make a song on him 
In Bcme measure equal to his merits. 

R. B. 



xxvin. 
TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 

[It is a curious chapter in the life of Burns to counl; 
She number of letters which he wrote, the numi «r of fine 
poems he composed, and the number of places which he 
visited in the unhappy summer and autumn of 1786.] 

Kilmarnock, August, 1786. 
My dear Sir, 
Your truly facetious epistle of the 3d inst. 
gave me much entertainment. I was sorry I 
had not the pleasure of seeing you as I passed 
your way, but we shall bring up all our lee way 
on Wednesday, the 16th current, when I hope 
to have it in my power to call on you and take 
d kind, very probably a last adieu, before I go 
for Jamaica ; and I expect orders to repair to 
Greenock every day. — I have at last made my 
public appearance, and am solemnly inaugu- 
rated into the numerous class. — Could I have 
got a carrier, you should have had a score of 
vouchers for my authorship ; but now you have 
them, let them speak for themselves. — 

Farewell, my dear friend ! may guid luck hit 

you, 
And 'mang her favourites admit you! 
!/ e'er Detraction shore to smit you, 

May nane believe him ! 
Ittd ony de'il that thinks to get you, 

Good Lord deceive him. 
R. B. 



XXIX. 
TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, 

MONTROSE. 

[The [ jvd and generous James Burness, of Montrose, 
was ever ready to rejoice with 1 is cousin's success or 
•>mpathiz9 with his sorrows, but he did not like the 
«hanee \% hich came over the old northern surname of 



Burness. when the bard modified it into Burns : the naxst 
now a rising one in India, is spelt Burnes.] 

Ifossffiel, Tuesday/ noon, Sept. 26, 1786 
My dear Sir, 

I THIS moment receive yours — receive it with 
the honest hospitable warmth of a friend'b 
welcome. Whatever comes from you wakens al- 
ways up the better blood about my he\rt. which 
your kind little recollections of my parental 
friends carries as far as it will go. 'Tis there 
that man is blest ! 'Tis there, my friend, man 
feels a consciousness of something within him 
above the trodden clod ! The grateful reve- 
rence to the hoary (earthly) author of his being 
— the burning glow when he clasps the woman 
of his soul to his bosom — the tender yearnings 
of heart for the little angels to whom he has 
given existence — these nature has poured in 
milky streams about the human heart ; and the 
man who never rouses them to action, by the 
inspiring influences of their proper objects, 
loses by far the most pleasurable part of hia 
existence. 

My departure is uncertain, but I do not think 
it will be till after harvest. I will be on very 
short allowance of time indeed, if I do not com- 
ply with your friendly invitation. When it will 
be I don't know, but if I can make my wish 
good, I will endeavour to drop you a line some 
time before. My best compliments to Mrs. 

; I should [be] equally mortified should I 

drop in when she is abroad, but of that I sup- 
pose there is little chance. 

What I have wrote heaven knows ; T have not 
time to review it ; so accept of it in the beaten 
way of friendship. With the ordinary phrase 
— perhaps rather more than the ordinary sin- 
cerity, 

I am, dear Sir, 

Ever yours, 

R. B. 



XXX. 

TO MISS ALEXANDER. 

[This letter, Robert Chambers says, concluded with 
requesting Miss Alexanoer to allow the poet to print th« 
song which it enc'osed, in a second edition of his Poems 
Her neglect in not replying to this request is a very good 
poetic reason for his wrath. Many of Burns's lettert 
have been printed, it is right to say, from the rough 
drafts found among the poet's papers at his death. Ttii* 
is one.] 



OF KOBERT BURNS. 



3H1 



Mossgiel, IStk Nov. 1786. 
Madam 

Poets are such outr^ beings, so much the 
ehildren of wayward fancy and capricious whim, 
that I believe the world generally allows them a 
large] latitude in the laws of propriety, than the 
srber .5v ns of judgment and prudence. I men- 
tion this as an apology for the liberties that a 
nameless stranger has taken with you in the en- 
closed poem, which he begs leave to present you 
with Whether it has poetical mei-it any way 
worthy of the theme^ I am not the proper judge; 
but it is the best my abilities can prod ice ; and 
what to a good hrart will, perhaps, be a superior 
grace, it is equally sincere as fervent. 

The scenery was nearly taken from real life, 
though I dare say. Madam, you do not recollect 
it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic 
reveur as he wandered by you. I had roved out 
as chance directed, in the favourite haunts of 
my muse on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature 
in all the gayety o^ the vernal year. The even- 
ing sun was flaming over the distant western 
hills ; not a breath stirred the crimson opening 
blossom, or the verdant spreading leaf. It was 
a golden moment for a poetic heart. I listened 
to the feathered warblers, pouring their har- 
mony on every hand, with a congenial kindred 
regard, and frequently turned out of my path, 
lest I should disturb their little songs, or 
frighten them to another station. Surely, said 
I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, 
regard 'ess of your harmonious endeavour to 
please him, can eye your elusive flights to dis- 
cover your secret recesses, and to rob you of 
all tbe property nature gives you — your dearest 
comforts, your helpless nestlings. Even the 
hoary hawthorn twig that shot across the way, 
what heart at such a time but must have been 
lnt»;r2sted in its welfare, and wished it preserved 
from the rudely-browsing cattle, or the wither- 
Inif eastern blast? Such was the scene, — and 
suca the hour, when, in a corner of my prospect, 
I spied one of the fairest pieces of nature's 
vtcrkmanship that ever crowned a poetic land- 
scape or met a poet's eye, those visionary bards 
er.ceptei who hold commerce with aerial beings! 
Had Calumny and Villany taken my walk, they 
had at that moment 8w^rn eternal peace with 
luch an object. 

What an hour of inspiration for a poet! It 
would have raised plain dull historic prosfl into 
fiaetajihor measure. 



The enclosed song was the work of my return 
home: and perhaps it but poorly answers what 
might have been expected from such a scene, 
I have the honour to be, 
Madam, 
Your most obedient and ver7 
humble Servant, 

3 B 



XXXI. 

TO MRS. STEWART. 

OF STAIR AND AFTON. 

[Mrs. Stewart, of Stair and Afton, was th« titt pcrsci 
of note in the West who had the taste to sed r.i.d fee! tb« 
genius of Burns. He used to relate how his heart ftnt- 
tered when he first walked into the parlour of the towerg 
of Stair, to hear that lady's opinion of some of his songa. j 

[1786.] 
• Madam, 

The hurry of my preparations for going 
abroad has hindered me from performing my 
promise so soon as I intended. I have here sent 
you a parcel of songs, &c., which never maae 
their appearance, except to a friend or two at 
most. Perhaps some of them may be no great 
entertainment to you, but of that I am far from 
being an adequate judge. The song to the tune 
of " Ettrick Banks" [The bonnie lass of Bal- 
lochmyle] you will easily see the impropriety 
of exposing much, even in manuscript. I think, 
myself, it has some merit : both as a tolerable 
description of one of nature's sweetest scenes, 
a July evening, and one of the finest pieces of 
nature's workmanship, the finest, indeed we 
know anything of, an amiable, beautiful young 
woman;' but I have no common friend to pro- 
cure me that permission, without which I would 
not dare to spread the copy. 

I am quite aware. Madam, what task the world 
would assign me in this letter. The obscure 
bard, when any of the great condescend to take 
notice of him, should heap the altar with the in- 
cense of flattery. Their high ancestry, their 
own great and god-like qualities and actions, 
should be recounted with the most exaggerated 
descrij.tion. This, Madam, is a task for which 
I am altogether unfit. Besides a certain disquali- 
fying pride of heart, I know nothing of youf 
connexions in life, and have no access to whcr^ 



1 Miss Alexunde/ 



B32 



GENERAL COEKESPONDENCE 



your real character is to be found — the company 
of your compeers: and more, I am afraid that 
even the most refined adulation is by no means 
tilt road to your good opinion. 

One feature of your character I shall ever with 
grateful pleasure remember; — the reception I 
got when I had the honour of waiting on you at 
Stair. I am little acquainted with politeness, 
liat I know a good deal of benevolence of tem- 
per and goodness of heart. Surely did those in 
exalted stations know how- happy they could 
make some classes of their inferiors by conde- 
BC3nsion and affabilitj^ they would never stand 
BO high, measuring out with every look the height 
of their elevation, but condescend as sweetly as 
did Mrs. Stewart of Stair. 

R. B. 



XXXII. 
IN THE NAME OF THE NINE. AMEN. 

[The song ox* ballad which one of the "Deil'syeld 
Nowte" was commanded to burn, was " Holy Willie's 
Prayer," it is believed. Currie interprets the '• Deil's yeld 
Nowte," to mean old bachelors, which, if right, points 
to some other of his cpmpositions, for purgation by fire. 
Gilbert Burns says it is a scoffing appellation sometimes 
given to sheriffs' officers and other executors of the law.] 

We, Robert Burns, by virtue of a warrant from 
Nature, bearing date the twenty-fifth day of 
January, Anno Domini one thousand seven 
kiindred and fifty-nine,^ Poet Laureat, and Bard 
in Chief, in and over the districts and countries 
of Kyle, Cunningham, andCarrick, of old extent, 
To our trusty and well-beloved William Chal- 
mers and John M'Adam, students and practi- 
tioners in the ancient and mysterious science of 
ccnfounding right and wrong. 
Right Trusty : 

Be it known unto you that whereas in the 
course of our care and watchings over the order 
and police of all and sundry the manufacturers, 
^e^J,iners, and venders of poesy ; bards, poets, 
j,f>elasters, rhymers, jinglers, songsters, ballad- 
aingers, &c. &c. &c. &c., male and female — 
We have discovered a certain nefarious, abo- 
minable, and wicked song or ballad, a copy 
whereof We have here enclosed ; Our Will 
therefore is, that Ye pitch upon and appoint 
the most execrable individual of that most exe- 
-irable species, kncwn by the appellation, phrase, 
*nd nick-name of The Deil's Yeld Nowte : and 

1 H» birth-day. 



after having caused him to kindle a fire at the 
Cross of Ayr, ye shall, at noontide of the day, 
put into the said wretch's merciless hands tha 
said copy of the said nefarious and wicked 
song, to be consumed by fire in the presence of 
all beholders, in abhorrence of, and terroreffi 
to, all such compositions and composers. And 
this in nowise leave ye undone, but have it ^Xft' 
cuted in every point as this our mandate beari; 
before the twenty-fourth current, when in per 
son We hope to applaud your faithfulness and 
zeal. 

Given at Mauchline this twentieth day of No- 
vember, Anno Domini one thousand sevm hun 
dred and eighty-.six. 

God save the Bard ! 



XXXIII. 
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. 

[The expedition to Edinburgh, to which this short 
letter alludes, was undertaken, it is needless to say, iq 
consequence of a warm and generous commendation of 
the genius of Burns written by Dr. Blacklock, to tha 
Rev. Mr. Lawrie,and communicated byGa- fn Hamilton 
to the poet, when he was on the wing foi the West 
Indies.] 

Ilossffiel, 18tk Nov., 1786. 
My dear Sir, 
Enclosed you have *' Tam Samson," as I in- 
tend to print him. I am thinking for my Edin- 
burgh expedition on Monday or Tuesday, come 
se'ennight, for pos. I will see you on Tuesday 
first. 

I am ever. 



Your much indebted. 



R. B. 



XXXIV. 
TO DR. rvlACKENZIl?:, 

MAUCHLINE ; 
ENCLOSING THE VERSES ON BINING WITH L<C RD CAK4. 

' [To the kind and venerable Dr. Mackenzie, the pf f" 
was indebted for some valuable friendships, and hie bio- 
graphers for some valuable information respecting tlit 
early days of Burns.] 

Wednesday Morning, 
Dear Sir, 
I NEVER spent an afternoon among great folks 
with half that pleasure as when, in company 
with you, I had the honour of paying my de- 
voirs to that plain, honest, worthy man, th« 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



335 



professor. [Dugald Stewart.] I would be de- 
lighted to see him perform acts of kindness and 
friendship, though I were not the object; he 
does it with such a grace. I think his charac- 
ter, divided into ten parts, stands thus — four 
parts Socrates — four parts Nathaniel — and two 
parts Shakspeare's Brutus. 

The foregoing verses were really extempore, 
but a little corrected since. They may enter- 
tain you a little with the help of that partiality 
with which you are so good as to favour the 
^ovfoi'mtnces of. 

Dear Sir, 
Your very humble servant, 

R. B. 



XXXV. 
TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.^ 

MAUCHLINE. 

J From Gavin Hamilton Burns and his brother took the 
farm of Mossgiel : the landlord was not slow in perceiv- 
ing the genius of Robert: he had him frequently at his 
i3bl8,and the poet repaid this notice by verse not likely 
■ooa to die.] 

Edinburgh, Dec. 7th, 1786. 
Honoured Sir, 

I HAVE paid every attention to your com- 
mands, but can only say what perhaps you will 
have heard before this reach you, that Muir- 
kirklands were bought by a John Gordon, W. 
S., but for whom I know not; Mauchlands, 
Haugh, Miln, &c., by a Frederick Fothering- 
ham, supposed to be for Ballochmyle Laird, and 
Adamhill and Shawood were bought for Oswald's 
folks. — This is so imperfect an account, and 
will be so late ere it reach you, that were it not 
to discharge my conscience I would not trouble 
you with it ; but after all my diligence I could 
make it no sooner nor better. 

For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of be- 
coming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John 
Bunyan ; and you may expect henceforth to see 
my* birth-day inserted among the wonderful 
events, in the Poor Robin's and Aberdeen Alma- 
nacks, along with the Black Monday, and the 
battle of Bothwell bridge. — My Lord Glencairn 
an'I the Dean of Faculty, Mr. H. Erskine, have 
taken me under their wing ; and by all proba- 
bility I shall soon be the tenth worthy, and 
the eighth wise man in the world. Through my 
lord's influence it is inserted in the records 
%f the Caledonian Hunt that they universally, 



one and all, subscribe for the second edHion.— 
My subscription bills come out to-morrow, and 
you shall have some of them next post. — I hava 
met, in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, wha* 
Solomon emphatically calls *' a friei.d that stick- 
eth. closer than, a brother." — The warmth with 
which he interests himself in my affairs is of 
the same enthusiastic kind which you, Mr Aikenj 
and the few patrons that took notice of mj 
earlier poetic days, showed for the poor unlucky 
devil of a poet. 

I always remember Mrs. Hamilton and Misa 
Kennedy in my poetic prayers, but you both in 
prose and verse. 

May cauld ne'er catch you but a hap, 

Nor hunger but in plenty's lap ! 

Amen ! 

R. B 



XXXVI. 
TO JOHN EALL^NTYNE, ESQ.. 

BANKER, AYR. 

[This is the second letter which Burns wrote, after Mb 
arrival in Edinburgh, and it is remarkable because it dis- 
tinctly imputes his introduction to the Earl of Glencairn, 
to Dalrymrle, of Orangefield • though he elsewhere says 
this was done by Mr. Dalzell ;— perhaps both those gen- 
tlemen had a hand in this good deed.] 

Edinburgh, ISth Dec. 1786 
My honoured Friend, 
I WOULD not write you till I could have it in my 
power to give you some account of myself and my 
matters, which, by the by, is often no easy task. 
— I arrived here on Tuesday was se'ennight, and 
have suffered ever since I came to town with a 
miserable headache and stomach complaint, 
but am now a good deal better. — I have found a 
worthy warm friend in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orange- 
field, who introduced me to Lord Glencairn, 
a man whose worth and brotherly kindness to 
me, I shall remember when time shall be ns 
more. — By his interest it is passed in the " Cale- 
donian Hunt," and entered in their booka. that 
they are to take each a copy of the second edi- 
tion, for which they are to pay one guinea.— 
I have been introduced to a good many of the 
noblesfie,hntmy avowed patrons and patronesces 
are the Duchess of Gordon — the Countess of 
Glencairn, with my Lord, and Lady Betty ' — 
the Dean of Faculty— Sir John Whitefoord— I 

I Ladv Bettv Cunningham. 



S34 



aENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



have likewise warm friends among the literati; 
Professors Stewart, Blair, and Mr. Mackenzie — 
the Man of Feeling. — An unknown hand left ten 
guineas for the Ayrshire bard with Mr. Sibbald, 
which I got. — I since have discovered my gene- 
rous unknown friend to be Patrick Miller, Esq., 
brother to the Justice Clerk; and drank a glass 
cf claret with him, by invitation, at his own 
feoxise. yesternight. I am nearly agreed with 
Cretch t' print my book, and I suppose I will 
begin on Monday. I will send a subscription 
bill or two, next post ; when I intend writing 
my first kind patron, Mr. Aiken. I saw his son 
to-day, and he is very well. 

Dugald Stewart, and some of my learned 
friends, put me in the periodical paper, called 
The Lounger,' a copy of which I here enclose 
you. — I was. Sir, when I was first honoured 
with your notice, too obscure ; now I tremble 
lest I should be ruined by being dragged too 
suddenly into the glare of polite and learned 
observation. 

I shall certainly, my ever honoured patron, 
write you an account of my every step ; and 
better health and more spirits may enable me 
to make it something better than this stupid 
matter-of-fact epistle. 

I have the honour to be. 

Good Sir, 
Your ever grateful humble servant, 

R. B. 

If any of my friends write me, my direction 
li, care of Mr. Creech, bookseller. 



XXXVII. 
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. 

I Muir, thy weaknesses," says Burns, writing of this 
^■entl3raiin to Mrs. Dunlop, " thy weaknesses were the 
»t arrat'ons of hiinnan nature ; but thy heart glowed with 
»ver;.'l]iir.g generous, manly, and noble: and if ever 
»TE>a-;'iiion from the All-good Being animated a human 
kn-,_ twa^ thine. 

Edinburgh, Dec. 20th, 1786. 

My bear Friend, 

I HAVE just time for the carrier, to tell you 

that I received your letter ; of which I shall 

Bay DO more but what a lass of my acquaintance 

laid of her bastard wean ; she said she " did 

1 Th » paper here alluded to, was written by Mr. Mac- 
021 9, the celebrated author of " The Man of Feeling." 



na ken wha was the father exactly, but shft 
suspected it was some o' the bonny blackguaro 
smugglers, for it was like them." So 1 mly 
say your obliging epistle was like you. ' en* 
close you a parcel of subscription bills. lOur 
affair of sixty copies is also like you; but it 
would not be like me to comply. 

Your friend's notion of my life has put ft 
crotchet in my head of sketching it in soisa 
future epistle to you. My compliments to 
Charles and Mr. Parker. R. B. 



XXXVIII. 
TO MR. WILLIAM CHALMERS, 

WRITER, AYR. 

[William Chalmers drew out the assignment of tha 
copyright of Burns's Poems, in favour of his brothe? 
Gilbert, and for the maintenance of his natural child, 
when engaged to go to the West Indies, in the autuma 
of 1786.] 

Edinburgh, Dec. 27, 1786. 
My dear Friend, 
I confess I have sinned the sin for which 
there is hardly any forgiveness — ingratitude to 
friendship — in not writing you sooner ; but of 
all men living, I had intended to have sent you 
an entertaining letter ; and by all the plodding, 
stupid powers, that in nodding, conceited ma- 
jesty, preside over the dull routine of business 
— a heavily solemn oath this ! — I am, and have 
been, ever since I came to Edinburgh, as unfit 
to write a letter of humour, as to write a com- 
mentary on the Revelation of St. John the Di- 
vine, who was banished to the Isle of Patmos, 
by the cruel and bloody Domitian, son to Ves- 
pasian and brother to Titus, both emperors of 
Rome, and who was himself an emperor, anJ 
raised the second or third persecution, I forget 
which, against the Christians, and after thrown 
ing the said Apostle John, brother to the Apostle 
James, commonly called James the Greater, to 
distinguish him from another James, who was, 
on some account or other, known by the name 
of James the Less — after throwing him into a 
cauldron of boiling oil, from which he was mi- 
raculously preserved, he banished the poor eon 
of Zebedee to a desert island in the Archipelago, 
where he was gifted with the second sight, and 
saw as many wild beasts as I have seen since I 
came to Edinburgh ; which, a circumstance no! 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



33i» 



rerj- uncommon in story-telling, brings me back 
to where I set out. 

To make you some amends for what, before 
you reach this paragraph, you will have suffered, 
I enclose you two poems I have carded and spun 
since I past Glenbuck. 

r>ne blank in the address to Edinburgh — 
•• Fair B ," is heavenly Miss Burnet, daugh- 
ter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have 
kad the honour to be more than once. There 
has not been anything nearly like her in all the 
3ombinations of beauty, grace, and goodness 
:he great Create''* has formed since Milton's Eve 
sn the first day of her existence. 

My direction is — care of Andrew Bruce, mer- 
chant, Bridge-street. R. B. 



XXXIX. 

TO THE EARL OF E G L I N T U N. 

[Archibald Montgomery, eleventh Earl of Eglinton, 
snd Cclonsl Hugh Montgomery, of Coilsfield, who suc- 
ceeded his brother in his titles and estates, were patrons, 
and kind ones, of Burns.] 

Edi7iburgh, January 1787. 
Mr Lord, 
As I have but s''ender pretensions to philoso- 
phy, 1 cannot rise to the exalted ideas of a citi- 
7Pn of the world, but have all those national 
prejudices, which I believe glow pecnli;irly 
strong in the breast of a Sco+chman. There is 
scarcely anything to which I am so feelingly 
alive as the honour and welfare of my country : 
and. as a poet, I have no higher enjoyment than 
Binging lier sons and daughters. Fate had cast 
my station in the veriest shades of life ; but 
never di^l a heart pant more ardently that, 
mine to be distinguished; though, till very 
lately, I looked in vain on every side for a ray 
ol light. It is easy then to guess how much I 
w«d gratified with the countenance and appro- 
bation of one of my country's most illustrious 
sons, when Mr. Wauchope callgd on me yester- 
day on the part of your lordship. Your muni- 
fibence, my lord, certainly deserves my very 
cruteful acknowledgments ; but your patro- 
nage is a bounty peculiarly suited to my feel- 
ingrs. I am not master enough of the etiquette 
of life to know, whether there be not some im- 
propriety in troubling your lordship with my 
thanks, tut my heart whispered me to do it. 



From the emotions of my inmost soul T do It 
Selfish ingratitude I hope I am incapable of » 
and mercenary servility, I trust, I shall evel 
have so much honest pride as to detest. 

K. B. 



XL. 
TO MR. GAVIN HAMILTON, 

[This letter was first published by Robert Chamb«r», 
who considered it as closing the inquiry, " was Burni 
a married man ?" No doubjjj Burns thought himself un 
married, and the Rev. Mr. Auld w^as of the same opinion, 
since he offered him a certificate that he was single : but 
no opinion of priest or lawyer, including the disclama- 
tion of Jean Armour, and the belief of Burns, could have, 
in my opinion, barred the claim of the children to fuL 
legitimacy, according to the law of Scotland.] 

Edinburgh, Jan. 7, 1787. 
To tell the truth among friends, I feel a mi 
serable blank in my heart, with the want of her, 
and I don't think I shall ever meet with so de- 
licious an armful again. She has her faults : 
and so have you and I ; and so has everybody 

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft ; 

They've ta'en me in and a' that ; 
But clear your decks, and here's the sex 
I like the jads for a' that. 
For a' that and a' that, 
And twice as muckle's a' tha». 



I have met with a very pretty girl, a Lothian 
farmer's daughter, whom I have almost per- 
suaded to accompany me to the west country, 
should I ever return to settle there. By the 
bye, a Lothian farmer is about an Ayrshire 
squire of the lower kind ; and I had a most de- 
licious ride from Leith to her house yesternight, 
in a hackney-coach with her brother and two 
sisters, and brother's wife We had dined alto 
gether at a common friend's house in Leitb, anjS 
danced, drank, and sang till late enough. The 
night was dark, the claret had bc€n good, ani 
I thirsty. * * ^ * * R. B. 



XLI. 
TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ. 

[This letter contains the first intimation that the po« 
desired to resume the labours of the farmer. Tht olJ 






GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



law of "Willie Gaw's fekate," he picked up from his 
mother, who had a vast collection of such saymgs.J 

Edinburgh, Jan. 14, 1787. 
Mr HONOURED Feiend, 

It gives me a secret comfort to observe in 
Bnyself that I am not yet so far gone as Willie 
Gaw's (Skate, " past redemption ;" for I have 
still this favourable symptom of grace, that 
when my conscience, as in the case of this 
tetter, tells me I am leaving something undone 
that I ought to do, it teases me eternally till I 
do it. 

I am still " dark as was Chaos"' in respect to 
futurity. My generous fi'iend, Mr. Patrick 
Miller, has been talking with me about a lease 
of some farm or other in an estate called Dal- 
swinton, which he has lately bought, near Dum- 
fries. Some life-rented embittering recollec- 
tions whisper me that I will be happier anywhere 
than in my old neighbourhood, but Mr. Miller 
is no judge of land; and though I dare say he 
means to favour me, yet he may give me, in his 
opinion, an advantageous bargain that may ruin 
me. I am to take a tour by Dumfries as I 
return, and have promised to meet Mr. Miller 
on his lands some time in May. 

I went to a mason-lodge yesternight, where 
the most Worshipful Grand Master Charters, 
and all the Grand Lodge of Scotland visited. 
The meeting was numerous and elegant ; all the 
different lodges about town were present, in all 
their pomp. The Grand Master, who presided 
with great solemnity and honour to himself as 
a gentleman and mason, among other general 
coasts, gave " Caledonia, and Caledonia's Bard, 
Brother Burns," which rung through the whole 
assembly with multiplied honours and repeated 
acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing 
would happen, I was downright thunderstruck, 
and, trembling in every nerve, made the best 
return in my power. Just as I had finished, 
some of the grand officers said, so loua that I 
f^uld hear, with a most comforting accent, 
"Very well indeed!" which set me something 
to lights again. 

I have to day corrected my 152d page. My 
best good wishes to Mr. Aiken. 
I am ever. 
Dear Sir, 
Your much indebted humble servant, 

R. B. 

1 Bee Blair's Grave. This was a favourite quotatioo 
*ath Bijras. 



XLII 
TO JOHN BALLANTYNE. 

[I have not hesitated to insert all letters whicn sn« \« 
what Burns was musing on as a poet, or planning an a 
man.] 

January — ,'l787. 
While here I sit, sad and solitary by th e side 
of a fire in a little country inn, and drying my 
wet clothes, in pops a poor fellow of sodger, and 
iells me he is going to Ayr. Bj heavens ! say I 
to myself, with a tide of good spirits which the 
magic of that sound, Auld Toon o' Ayr, conjured 
up, I will sent my last song to Mr. Ballantyne. 
Here it is — 

Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Boon, 
How can ye blume sae fair ; 

How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I sae fu' o' care I^ 



XLIII. 
TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

[The friendahip of Mrs. Dunlop purified, while it 
strengthened the national prejudices of Burns.] 

Edinburgh, 15th January, 1787. 
Madam, 
YouBS of the 9th current, which I am this 
moment honoured with, is a deep reproach to 
me for ungrateful neglect. I will tell you the 
real truth, for I am miserably awkward at a fib 
— I wished to have written to Dr. Moore before 
I wrote to you ; but though every day since I 
received yours of December 30th, the idea, the 
wish to write to him has constantly pressed on 
my thoughts, yet I could not for my soul set 
about it. I know his fame and character, and 
I am one of "the sons of little men." To write 
him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like a mer- 
chant's order, would be disgracing the little 
character I have ; and to write the authur of 
" The View of Society and Manners" a letter 
of sentiment — I declare every artery runs cold 
at the thought. I shall try, however, to write 
to him to-morrow or next day. His kind inter- 
position in my benalf I have already experienced, 
as a gentleman waited on me the other day, on 
the part of Lord Eglintoun, with ten guineas, bJ 

2 Song CXXXl. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



83^ 



way of subscription for two copies of my next 
•tlition. 

The word you object to in the mention I have 
made of my glorious countryman and your im- 
mortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from Thom- 
son ; but it does not strike me as an improper 
epithet. I distrusted my own judgment on your 
finding fault with it, and applied for the opinion 
of some of the literati here, who honour me 
with their critical strictures, and they all allow 
it to be proper. The song you ask I cannot re- 
collect, and I have not a copy of it. I have not 
composed anything on the great Wallace, except 
what you have seen in print ; and the enclosed, 
which I will print in this edition. You will see 
I have mentioned some others of the name. 
When I composed my "Vision" long ago, I had 
attempted a description of Koyle, of which the 
additional stanzas are a part, as it originally 
stood. My heart glows with a wish to be able 
CO do justice to the merits of the "Saviour of 
his Country," which soouer or later I shall at 
least attempt. 

You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with 
my prosperity as a poet ; alas ! Madam, I know 
myself and the world too well. I do not mean 
any airs of affected modesty ; I am willing to 
believe that my abilities deserve some notice ; 
but in a most enlightened, informed age and 
nation, when poetry is and has been the study 
of men of the first natural genius, aided with all 
the powers of polite learning, polite books, and 
polite company — ^.to be dragged forth to the full 
glare of learned and polite observation, with all 
my imperfections of awkward rusticity and 
crude unpolished ideas on my head — I assure 
yon, Madam, I do not dissemble when I tell 
you I tremble for the consequences. The 
aovelty of a poet in my obscure situation, with- 
out any of those advantages which are reckoned 
necessary for that character, at least at this 
time of day, has raised a partial tide of public 
notice which has borne me to a height, where I 
am __ absolutely, feelingly certain, my abilities 
are inadequate to support rae ; and too surely 
do I see that time when the same tide will 
leave me, and recede, perhaps, as far below the 
mark of truth, I do not say this in the ridi- 
culous affectation of setf-abasement and mo- 
desty. I have studied myself, and Know what 
ground I occupy : and, however a friend or the 
world may differ fVora me in that particular, I 
Btand for my own opinion, in silent resolve, with 
29 



all the tenaciousness of property. I mention 
this to you once for all to disburthen my mind, 
and I do not wish to hear or say more about 
it.— But, 

*' AVhen proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes,-- 
you will bear me witness, that when my bubble 
of fame was at the highest, I stood unintoxi- 
cated with the inebriating cup in my hand; 
looking forward with rueful rrsolvc to th( 
hastening time, when the blow of (Jaiumr.y 
should dash it to the ground with all the eager- 
ness of vengeful triumph. 

Your patronizing me and interesting yourself 
in my fame and character as a poet, T rejoice 
in; it exalts me in my own idea ; and whether 
you can or cannot aid me in my subscription ia 
a trifle. Has a paltry subscription-bill any 
charms to the heart of a bard, compared with 
the patronage of the descendant of the immortal 
Wallace ? R. B. 



.XLI\ , 
TO DR. MOORE. 

[Dr. Moore, tne ii,:coniplished author of Zeluco antl 
father of Sir John Moore, interested himself in the fam« 
and forture of Burns, as soon as the oublicaiion of hin 
Poems mnde his name known to the wond.] 



Edinburgh; Jan. 1787. 



SlK, 



Mrs. Dunlop has been so kind as to send me 
extracts of letters she has had from you, -v^here 
you do the rustic bard the honour of noticing 
him and his works. Those who have felt the 
anxieties and solicitudes of authorship, can only 
know what pleasure it gives to be noticed in 
such a manner, by judges of the first character. 
Your criticisms, Sir, I receive with reverence; 
only I am sorry they mosfiy came too late : a 
peccant passage or two that I would certainly 
have altered, were gone to the pi ess. 

The hope to be admired for ages, is, in by ft.i 
the greater part of those even who are autl era 
of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For mj 
part, my first ambition was, and still my strong- 
est wish is, to please my compeers, the rustnj 
inmates of the hamlet, while ever-changing^ lan- 
guage and manners shall allow me to be relished 
and understood, I a,m very willing to admit 
that I have some poetical abilities ; and as few, 
if any, writers, either moral or poetical, are in- 
timately acquainted with the classes of mankind 



5:s8 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



Bmoir.g whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have 
Been men and manners in a different phasis from 
what is common, which may assist originality 
of thought. Still I know very well the novelty 
of my character has by far the greatest share 
in the learnei and polite notice I have lately 
had ; and in a language where Pope and 
Chijrchill have raised the laugh, and Shenstone 
and Gray drawn the tear ; where Thomson and 
Deattie have painted the landscape, and Lyttel- 
ton and Collins described the heart, I am not 
vain enough to hope for distinguished poetic 
fame. K. B. 



XLV. 
TO THE REV. G. LAURIE, 

NEWMILLS, NEAR KILMARNOCK. 

Lit nas Deen said in the Life of Burns, that for some time 
after ne went to Edinburgh, he did not visit Dr. Black- 
.ock, whose high opinion of his genius induced him to 
rry his fortune in that city : it will be seen by this letter 
that he had neglected also, for a time, at least, to write 
to Dr Laurie, who introduced him to the Doctor.] 

Edinburgh, Feb. 6th, 1787. 
Reverend and dear Sir, 

When I look at the date of your kind letter, 
my heart reproaches me severely with ingrati- 
tude in neglecting so long to answer it. I will 
not trouble you with any account, by way of 
apology, of my hurried life and distracted at- 
tention : do me the justice to believe that my 
delay by no means proceeded from want of re- 
spect, I feel, and ever shall feel for you the 
mingled sentiments of esteen for a friend and 
reverence for a father. 

I thank you, Sir, with all my sou. for your 
friendly hints, though I do not need them so 
much as my friends are apt to imagine. You 
are dazzled with newspaper accounts and distant 
reports ; but, in reality, I have no great tempta- 
tion to be intoxicated with the cup of prosperity. 
Novelty may attrac* the attention of mankind 
avhile ; to it I owe my present ^clat ; but I see 
the time not far distant when the popular tide 
which has borne me to a height of which I am, 
perhaps, unworthy, shall recede with silent ce- 
lerity, and leave me a barren waste of sand, to 
descend at my leisure to my former station. I 
do not say this in the affectation of modesty ; 
[ see the consequence is unavoidable, and am 
prepared for it I had been at a good deal 



cf pains to form a just, impartial estimate of 
my intellectual powers before I came here ; ] 
have not added, since I came to Edinburgh, 
anything to the account ; and I trust I shall 
take every atom of it back to my shades. th« 
coverts of my unnoticed, early years. 

In Dr. Blacklock, whom I see very often, 1 
have found what I would have expected in our 
friend, a clear head and an excellent heart. 

By far the most agreeable hours I spend m 
Edinburgh must be placed to the account of 
Miss Laurie and her piano-forte. I cannot help 
repeating to you and Mrs. Laurie a compliment 
that Mr. Mackenzie, the celebrated " Man of 
Feeling," paid to Miss Laurie, the other night 
at the concert. I had come in at the interlude, 
and sat down by him till I saw Miss Laurie in 
a seat not very distant, and went up to pay my 
respects to her. On my return to Mr. Macken* 
zie he asked mt who she was ; I told him 'twaa 
the daughter of a reverend friend of mine in the 
west country. He returned, there was some- 
thing very striking, to his idea, in her appear- 
ance. On my desiring to know what it was, he 
was pleased to say, " She has a great deal of the 
elegance of a well-bred lady about her, with all 
the sweet simplicity of a country girl." 

My compliments to all the happy inmates »)f 
St. Margaret's. R. B. 



XLVI. 
TO DR. MOORE. 



[In the answer to this letter, Dr. Moore says that th 
poet was a great favourite in his family, and that hii 
youngest son, at Winchester school, had translated pari 
of " Halloween" into Latin verse, for the benefit of 
h.s comraoes.J 



Sir, 



Edinburgh, 15th February, 1787. 



Pardon my seeming neglect in delaying so 
long to acknowledge the honour you have done 
me, in your kind notice of me, January 2'^d. 
Not many months ago I knew no other employ- 
ment than following the plough, nor could boast 
anything higher than a distant acquaintance 
with a country clergyman. Mere greatness 
never embarrasses me; I have nothing to ask 
from the great, and I do not fear their judg- 
ment : but genius, polished by learning, and at 
its proper point of elevation in the eye of the 
1 world, this of late I frequently meet with, and 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



r>^ 



h*emble at its .approach. I scorn the affectation 
of seeming modesty to cover self-conceit. That 
I have some merit I do not deny ; but I see 
with frequent wringings of heart, that the no- 
velty of my character, and the honest national 
pTcjadice of my countrymen, have borne me to 
a height altogether untenable to my abilities. 

For the honour Miss Williams has done me, 
p'aase. Sir, return her in my name my most 
grateful thanks. I have more than once thought 
of paying her in kind, but have hitherto quitted 
the idea in hopeless despondency. I had never 
bpfo^e heard of her ; but the other day I got 
her poems, which for several reasons, some be- 
longing to the head, and others the offspring of 
the heart, give me a great deal of pleasure. I 
have little pretensions to critic lore ; there are, 
I think, two characteristic features in her poetry 
— the unfettered wild flight of native genius, 
and the querulous sombre tenderness of " time- 
eettled sorrow." 

I only know what pleases me, often without 
being able to tell why. R. B. 



XL VII. 

TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ. 

♦ Tlie picture from which Beiigo engraved the portrait 
Alluded to in this letter, was painted by the now vene- 
rable Alexander Nasmyth — the eldest of living British 
artists: — it is, with the exception of a profile by Miers, 
the only portrait for which we are quite sure that the 
poet sat.] 

Edinburgh, Feb. 24th, 1787. 
My honoured Friend, 
1 WILL soon be with you now, in guid black 
prent ; — in a week or ten days at farthest. I 
am obliged, against my own wish, to print sub- 
Bcrifiers' names; so if any of my Ayr friends 
have subscription bills, they must be sent in to 
Creech directly. I am getting my phiz done by 
tn eminent engraver, and if it can be ready in 
»ime, 1 will appear in my book, looking like all 
iiiier fools to my title-page. E-. B. 



XLVIII. 



TO THE EARL OF GLENCATRN. 

[lie Earl of Glencairn seems to have refuhed, from 
«oM <«a of delicacy, the request of the poet: the verses, 



long lost, were at last found, and are now, through thi 
kindness of my friend, Major James Glencairn Butng^ 
printed with the rest of his eminent father's works.] 

Edinburgh, 178'^ 
My Lord, 

I WANTED to purchase a profile of your lord 
ship, which I was told was to be got in town; 
but I am truly sorry to see that a bluDderir| 
painter has spoiled a " human face divine," 
The enclosed stanzas I intended to have written 
below a picture or profile of your lordship, 
could I have been so happy as to procure one 
with anything of a likeness. 

As I will soon return to my shades, I wanted 
to have something like a material object for my 
gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my power to 
say to a friend, there is my noble patron, my 
generous benefactor. Allow me, my lord, to 
publish these verses. I conjure your lordship, 
by the honest throe of gratitude, by the gene- 
rous wish of benevolence, by all the powers and 
feelings which compose the magnanimous mind, 
do not deny me this petition. I owe much to 
your lordship : and, what has not in some other 
instances always been the case with me, the 
weight of the obligation is a pleasing load. I 
trust I have a heart as independent as youi* 
lordship's, than which I can say nothing more ; 
and I would not be beholden to favours that 
would crucify my feelings. Your dignified cha- 
racter in life, and manner of supporting that 
character, are flattering to my pride; and I 
would be jealous. of the purity of my grateful 
attachment, where I was under the patronage 
of one of the much favoured sons of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, 
particularly when they were names dear to fame^ 
and illustrious in their country; allow me, then, 
my lord, if you think the verses have intrinsic 
merit, to tell the world how much I have thi 
honour to be, 

Your lordship's highly indebted, 

And ever grateful humble servant, 
R B 



XLIX. 
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

[The Ear! of Buchan, a man of talent, but more thak 
toleriibly vain, advised Burns to visit tne battle-fieldi 
and scenes celebrated in song on the Scottish border, 
with the hope, perhaps, that he would drop a few ct liii 



fcappy verses in Dryburgh Abbey, the residence of his 
ordship.] 

Mt Lord, 
The honour jDur lordship has done me, by 
your notice and advice in yours of the 1st in- 
itant, I shall ever gratefully remember: — 
" Praise from thy lips, 'tis mine with joy to boast, 
They i est i^an give it who deserve 't mnst."l 

Your lordship touches the darling chord of my 
heart when you advise me to fire my muse at 
Scottish story and Scotch scenes. I wish for 
nothing more than to make a leisurely pilgrim- 
age through my native country ; to sit and muse 
on those once hard-contended fields, where Cale- 
donia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion- borne 
through broken ranks to victory and fame; and, 
catching the inspiration, to pour the deathless 
names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of 
these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry, 
moral-looking phantom strides across my 
imagination, and pronounces these emphatic 
words : — 

"I, Wisdom, dwell with Prudence. Friend, 
I do not come to open the ill-closed wounds of 
your follies and misfortunes, merely to give you 
pain : I wish through these wounds to imprint a 
lasting lesson on your heart. I v/ill not mention 
how many of my salutary advices you have des- 
pised : I have given you line upon line and pre- 
cept upon precept ; and while I was chalking 
out to you the straight way to wealth and cha- 
racter, with audacious effrontery you have zig- 
zagged across the path, contemning me to my 
face : you know the consequences. It is not 
yet three months since home was so hot for you 
that you were on the wing for the western shore 
^f the Atlantic, not to make a fortune, but to 
hide your misfortune. 

"Now that your dear-loved Scotia puts it in 
your power to return to the situation of your 
forefathers, will you follow these will-o'-wisp 
meteors of fancy and whim, till they bring you 
once more to the brink of ruin ? I grant that 
the utmost ground you can occupy is but half a 
step from the veriest poverty ; but still it is half 
a step from it. If all that I can urge be ineffec- 
tual, let her who seldom calls to you in vain, 
let the call of pride prevail with you. You know 
*iow you feel at the iron gripe of ruthless op- 
pression : you know how you bear the galling 
jneer of contumelious greatness. I hold you 
iut the conveniences, the comforts of life, in- 

IraitntDd from Pope's Eloisa to Abelard. 



dependence, and character, <;>n the one hand ; ) 
tender you civility, dependence, and wretched" 
ness, en the other. I will not insult your no* 
derstanciing by bidding you make a choice." 

This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must i'e« 
turn tti my humble station, and woo my rustia 
muse in my wonted way at the plough-tail. 
Still, my lord, while the drops of life warm my 
heart, gratitude to that dear-loved country in 
which I boast my birth, and gratitude to tho«if 
her distinguished sons who 'have honoured m« 
so much with their patronage and approbation, 
shall, while stealing through my humble shades, 
ever distend my bosom, and at times, as now, 
draw forth the swelling tear. E,. B. 



TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH. 

[James Candlish, a student of medicine, was well ac 
quainted with the poetry of LoAve, author of that subliml 
lyric, " Mary's Dream," and at the request of Burns senl 
Lowe's classic song of '^ Pompey's Ghost," to the Mu,« 
sical Museum.] 

Edinburgh, March 21, 1787. 
My ever deak old Acquaintance, 

I was equally surprised and pleased at your 
letter, though I dare say you will think by my 
delaying so long to write to you that I am so 
drowned in the intoxication of good fortune aa 
to be indifferent to old, and once dear con- 
nexions. The truth is, I was determined to 
write a good letter, full of argument, amplifi- 
cation, erudition, and, as Bayes says, all that. 
I thought of it, and thought of it, and, by my 
soul, I could not ; and, lest jovl should mistake 
the cause of my silence, I just sit down to tell 
you so. Don't give yourself credit, though, that 
the strength of your logic scares me : the truth 
is, I never mean to meet you on that ground at 
all. You have shown me one thing which was 
to be demonstrated : that strong pride of rea- 
soning, with a little affectation of singularity, 
may mislead the best of hearts. I likewise, 
since you and I were first acquainted, in the 
pride of despising old woman's stories, ventured 
in *' the daring path Spinosa trod ;" but experi- 
ence of the weakness, not the strength of human 
powers, made me glad to grasp at revealed 
religion. 

I am still, in the Apostle Paul's phrase, 
" The old man with his deeds," as when wi 



OF ROBERT BURNS 



54. 



were sporting about the " Lady Thorn." I shall 
be four weeks here yet at least ; and so I shall 
expect to hear from you ; welcome sense, wel- 
eome nonsense^ 

I am, with the warmest sincerity, 
R. B. 



LI. 



TO . 

[The name ot » friend to whom this letter was ad- 
ressed is srilJ unknown, tliough known to Dr. Currie. 
The Esculapian Club of Edinburgh have, since the 
death of Burns, added some iron-work, with an inscrip- 
tion iQ honour o* tlie Ayrshire poet, to the original liead- 
•tone. The cost to the poet was £5 10s.] 

Edinburgh, March, 1787. 
My deab Sir, 

You may think, and too justly, that I am a 
selfish, ungrateful fellow, having received so 
many repeated instances of kindness from you, 
and yet never putting pen to paper to say thank 
you ; but if you knew what a devil of a life my 
conscience has led me on that account, your 
good heart would think yourself too much 
avenged. By the bye, there is nothing in the 
whole frame of man which seems to be so unac- 
countable as that thing called conscience. Had 
the troublesome yelping cur powers efficient to 
prevent a mischief, he might be of use ; but at 
the beginning of the business, his feeble efforts 
are to the workings of passion as the infant 
frosts of an autumnal morning to the unclouded 
fervour of the rising sun : and no sooner are 
the tumultuous doings of the wicked deed over, 
than, amidst the bitter native consequences of 
folly, in the very vortex of our horrors, up 
Btarts conscience, and harrows us with the feel- 
ings of the damned, 

1 have enclosed you, by way of expiation, 
lome verse and prose, that, if they merit a place 
m your truly entertaining miscellany, you are 
irelcome to. The prose extract is literally as 
Mr. Sprott sent it me. 

The inscription on the stone is as follows: — 

"HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET. 
Born, September 5th, 1751— Died, 16th October, 1774. 
'< No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, 
' No storied urn or annnaled bust;' 
This simple stoue direcLs p;ile Scotia s way 
To p<.)ur her sorrows o'er her poet- 3 lust." 

'^n the other side of the stono is as follows : 



"By special grant of the managers to Rolrert Burns 
who erected this stone, this burin 1 place is to remain {o\ 
ever sacred to the memory of Robert Fergusson." 



Sessio7i-house, within the Kirk of Canongate^ thi 
twenty -second day of February, one ihowani 
seven hundred eighty-seven years. 

Sederunt of the Managers of the Kirk and fiLlrk 
Yard funds of Canongate. 

Which day, the treasurer to the said fundi 
produced a letter from Mr. Robert Burns, of 
date the 6th current, which was read and ap- 
pointed to be engrossed in thuir sederunt book, 
and of which letter the tenor follows • — 

"To the honourable baillies of CanongnLe, 
Edinburgh. — Gentlemen, I am sorry to be told 
that the remains of Robert Fergusson, the so 
justly celebrated poet, a man whose talents for 
ages to come will do honour to our Caledonian 
name, lie in your church-yard among the ignobl*^ 
dead, unnoticed and unknown. 

"Some memorial to direct the steps of the 
lovers of Scottish song, when they wish to shed 
a tear over the 'narrow house' of the bard who 
is no more, is surely a tribute due to Fergus- 
son's memory : a tribute I wish to have tbp 
honour of paying. 

" I petition you then, gentlemen, to permit 
me to lay a simple stone over his revered ashes, 
to remain an unalienable property to his death- 
less fame. I have the honour to be, gentlemen, 
your very humble servant (sic subscribitur), 

Robert Burns." 

Thereafter the said managers, in considera- 
tion of the laudable and disinterested motion 
of Mr. Burns, and the propriety of his request, 
did, and hereby do, unanimously, grant power 
and liberty to the said Robert Burns to ei ect a 
headstone at the grave of the said Robert Fer- 
gusson, and to keep tip and preserve the sa»< 
to his memory in all time coming. Extracted 
forth 0^ the records of the manasieis, * v 



William Speoit ( '^rk 



LII. 

TO MRS. D U N L P 

[The poet alludes in this letter to t/ie prohts of 
Edinburgh edition of Jiis Poems: the exa'*t sum -i 



542 



GENERAL COREESPONDENGE 



nrnwre staled, but it could not have been less than seven 
Hundred pounds.] 

Edinburgh, 3Iarch 22d, 1787. 
Madam, 

I READ your letter with watery eyes. A little, 
very little while ago, I had scarce a friend but 
the stubborn pride of my own bosom : now I 
am distinguished, patronized, befriended by you. 
Vour friendly advices, I will not give them the 
gold name of criticisms, I receive with reve- 
rence. I have made some small alterations in 
what I before had printed. I have the advice 
of some, very judicious friends among the literati 
here, but with them I sometimes find it neces- 
sary to claim the privilege of thinking for my- 
self. The noble Earl of Glencairn, to whom I 
owe more than to any man, does me the honout 
of giving me his strictures : his hints, with re- 
spect to impropriety or indelicacy, I follow im- 
plicitly. 

Yon kindly interest yourself in my future 
views and prospects ; there I can give you no 
light. It is all 

'< Dark as was Chaos ere the infant sun 
Was roli'd together, or had tried his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound."! 

The appellation of a Scottish bard, is by far 
ray highest pride ; to continue to deserve it is 
my most exalted ambition. Scottish scenes 
and Scottish story are the themes I could wish 
to sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it 
in my power, unplagued with the routine of 
business, for which heaven knows I am unfit 
enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through 
Caledonia: to sit on the fields of her battles; 
to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers; 
and to muse by the stately towers or vene- 
ra})le ruins, once the honoured abodes of her 
heroes. 

But these are all Utopian thoughts : I have 
dallied long enough with life ; 'tis time to be in 
earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to care 
for : and some other bosom ties perhaps equally 
tcujef Where the individual only suffers by 
the conrjequences of his own thoughtlessness, 
indolence, or folly, he may be excusable; nay, 
fchiuing abilities, and some of the nobler virtues, 
Miay half sanctify a heedless character ; but 
where God and nature have intrusted the wel- 
fare of others to his care ; where the trust is 
sacred, and the ties are dear, that man must 
he far gone in selfishness, or strangely lost to 

1 Blair's Grave. 



reflection, whom these connexions will not rousi 
to exertion. 

I guess that I shall clear between two anl 
three hundred pounds by my authorship ; with 
that sum I intend, so far as I may be said to 
have any intention, to return to my old ac- 
quaintance, the plough, and, if I can meet witb 
a lease by which I can live, to commence farmer. 
I do not intend to give up poetry ; being bred 
to labour, secures me independence, and tha 
muses are my chief, sometimes have been my 
only enjoyment. If my practice second my 
resolution, I shall have principally at heart the 
serious business of life ; but while following my 
plough, or building up my shocks, I shall cast a 
leisure glance to that dear, that only feature of 
my character, which gave me the notice of my 
country, and the patronage of a Wallace. 

Thus honoured Madam, I have given you tha 
bard, bis situation, and his views, native aa 
they are in his own bosom. R. B. 



LIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[Tliis seems to be a letter acknowledging the paymnat 
of Mrs. Dunlop's subscription for his poems.] 

Edinburgh, 15th April, 1787. 
Madam, 

There is an affectation of gratitude which 1 
dislike. The periods of Johnson and the pause 
of Sterne, may hide a selfish heart. For my 
part. Madam, I trust I have too much pride fo* 
servility, and too little prudence for selfishness. 
I have this moment broken open your letter, 

but 

"Rude am I in speech, 
And therefore little can 1 grace my cause 
In speaking for mvself — " 2 

so I shall not trouble you with any fine spee^hef 
and hunted figures. I shall just lay my haul 
on my heart and say, I hope 1 shall ever hav« 
the truest, the warmest sense of your goo Infss 
I come abroad in print, for certain en Wed 
nesday. Your orders 1 shall punctually attend 
to ; only, by the way, I must tell you that 1 
was paid before for Dr. Moore's and Miss Wil- 
liams's copies, through the medium of /Commis- 
sioner Cochrane in this place, but that we can 
settle when I have the honour of waiting on you 

a From Othello. 



OF ROBERT BURNS 



343 



Dr. Smith ' was just gone to London the mor- 
ling before I received your letter to him. 

R. B. 



LIV. 
TO -MR. SIBBALD, 

P0OK3ELLEB, IN EDINBURGH. 

it'rM letter first an\ sared in that very valua|?le work, 
\ «i»oii a Illustrations of Literature.] 



Lawn Market. 



Sir, 



So little* am I acquainted with the words and 
marjiers of the more public and polished walks 
cf life, that I often feel myself much embar- 
rassed how to express the feelings of my heart, 
particularly gratitude : — 

" Rude am I in ray speech, 
And little therefore shall I grace my cause 
In speaking for myself — " 

The warmth with which you have befriended 
an obscure man and a young author in the last 
three magazines — I can only say, Sir, I feel the 
weight of the obligation, I wish I could express 
my sense of it. In the mean time accept of the 
conscious acknowledgment from, 
Sir, 
Your obliged servant, 

K B. 



LV. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

. [The book to which the poet alludes, was the well- 
known View of Society by Dr. Moore, a work of spirit 
and observation.] 

Edinburgh, 2dd April, 1787. 
I RECEIVED the books, and sent the one you 
mentioned to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill skilled in 
^'<r?^ting the c ."^erts of imagination for metaphors 
if ^n^atitude. 1 t':aiik you. Sir, for the honour 
you have done me ; and to my latest hour will 
Furniiy remember it. To be highly pleased with 
our book is what I have in common with the 
r7or' J ; but to regard these volumes as a mark 
of the author's friendly esteem, is a still more 
supreme gratification. 

I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days 
or a fortnight, i»^:^J. after a few pilgrimages over 
*ome of the cla5.3,c ground of Caledonia, Cow- 

1 Adam Smith. 



den Knowes, Banks of Yarrow, Tweed, &c., 
I shall return to my rural shades, in all likeli- 
hood never more to quit them. I have formed 
many intimacies and friendships here, but I am 
afraid they are all of too tender a construction 
to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To 
the rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, I 
have no equivalent to offer* and I am afraid my 
meteor appearance will by no means entitle me 
to a settled correspondence with any of you, who 
are the permanent lights of genius and literature. 
My most respectful compliments to Misf 
Williams. If once this tangent flight of mine 
were over, and I were returned to my wonted 
leisurely motion in my old circle, I may pro- 
bably endeavour to return her poetic compli- 
ment in kind. R. B 



LVI. 
TO -MRS. DUNLOP. 

[This letter was in answer to one of criticism and .# 
monstrance, fn>m Mrs. Dunlop. respecting " Thelireaisv/ 
which she had begged the poet to omit, lest it sho-iW 
harm his fortunes with the world.] 

Edinburgh, '60th April, 1787. 

Your criticisms, Madam, 1 under- 
stand very well, and could have wished to have 
pleased you better. You are right in your 
guess that I am not very amenable to counsel. 
Poets, much my superiors, have so flattered 
those who possessed the adventitious qualities 
of wealth and power, that I am determined to 
flatter no created being, either in prose or 
verse. 

I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, critics, 
&c. , as all these respective gentry do by my bard- 
ship. I know what I may expect from the 
world, by and by — illiberal abuse, and perhaps 
contemptuous neglect. 

I am happy. Madam, that some of nijr jwn 
favourite pieces are distinguished by ycur par- 
ticular approbation. For my "Dream," which 
has unfortunately incurred your loyal displea 
sure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to have tha 
honour of appearing, at Dunlop, ii its defenci 
in person. B B 



LVII. 

TO THE REV. DR. HUGH BLAIR. 

[The ansvt er of Dr. Blair to this letter contains the 
fol owing passage: "Your situation, as you say, was 
cdeed very singular : and in being brought out all at 
wj( e from the shades of deepest privacy to so great a 
una:? ')f public notice and observation, you had to stand 
* severe itla!. I am happy you have stood it so well, 
%fid, as far as I have known, or heard, though in the 
^-deit of mariy temptations, without reproach to your 
chaiactaror fcjhaviour.-'] 

Lawn-market, Edinburgh, Sd May^ 1787. 
Reverend and much-respected Sir, 

I leave Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but 
could not go without troubling you with half a 
line, sincerely to thank you for the kindness, 
patronage, and friendship you have shown me. 
I often felt the embarrassment of my singular 
situation ; drawn forth from the veriest shades 
of life to the glare of remark ; and honoured by 
the notice of those illustrious names of my coun- 
try whose works, while they are applauded to 
the end of time, will ever instruct and mend the 
heart. However the meteor-like novelty of my 
appearance in the world might attract notice, 
and honour me with the acquaintance of the per- 
manent lights of genius and literature, those 
who are truly benefactors of the immortal na- 
ture of man, I knew very well that my utmost 
merit was far unequal to the task of preserving 
that character when once the novelty was over; 
I have made up my mind that abuse, or almost 
even neglect, will not surprise me in my quar- 
ters. 

I have sent you a proof impression of Beugo's 
work' for me, done on Indian paper, as a tri- 
fiing but sincere testimony with what heartwarm 
jrratitude I am, &c. R. B. 



LVIII. 

TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

[The poot addressed the following letter to the Earl 
t'f Glencaiin, when he commenced his journey to the 
Horler. Ir was first printed in the third edition of Lock 
kart s Life of Buds; an eloquent and manly work.] 

M^ Lord, 
I GO away to morrow morning early, and al- 
lov me to veut the fulness of my heart, in 
Ikeoking your lordship for all that patronage, 



T;ie \ •ix ra't of the poet after Nasrayth. 



that benevolence and that friendship with whicl 
you have honoured me. With brimful eyes, I 
pray that you may find in that great Being,, 
whose image you so nobly bear, that friend 
which I have found in you. My gratitude is not 
selfish design — that I disdain — it is not dodging 
after the heels of greatness — that is an offering 
you disdain. It is a feeling of the same Kind 
with my devotion. R. B. 



LIX. 

TO MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR. 

[William Dunbar, Colonel of the Crochajlan Fencibles 
The name has a martial sound, but the corps which h« 
commanded was a club of wits, whose courage was exer- 
cised on "paitiicks, teals, moorpowts, and plovers."] 

Lawn-market, Monday morniny. 
Dear Sir, 

In justice to Spenser, I must acknowledge 
that there is scarcely a poet in the langunge 
could have been a more agreeable present to 
me ; and in justice to you, allow me to say, Sir, 
that I have not met with a man in Edinburgh to 
whom I would so willingly haye been indebted 
for the gift. The tattered rhymes I herewith 
present you, and the handsome volumes of 
Spenser for which I am so much indebted to 
your goodness, may perhaps be not in proportion 
to one another ; but be that as it may, my gift, 
though far less valuable, is as sincere a mark 
of esteem as yours. 

The time is approaching when I shall return 
to my shades ; and I am afraid my nuraeroua 
Edinburgh friendships are of so tender a con- 
struction, that they will not bear carriage with 
me. Youi-s is one of the few that I could wish 
of a more robust constitution. It is indeed 
very probable that when I leave this city, we 
part never more to meet in this siibLmary 
sphere ; but I have a strong fancy that in some 
future eccentric planet, the comet of happif.r 
systems than any with which astronomy is yel 
acquainted, you and I, among the harum scarum 
sons of imagination and whim, with a hearty 
shake of a hand, a metaphor and a laugh, shall 
recognise old acquaintance : 

" Where wit may sparkle all its raj s, 
Uncurs'd with caution's fearsj 
That pleasure, basking m the blaze 
Reioice for endless years." 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



o4a 



I have the honour to be, with the warmest 
lincerity, dear Sir, &c. R. B. 



LX. 
TO JAMES JOHNSON. 

( James J'^hnson was an engraver in Edinburgh, and 
rA»prieiof of the Musical Museum; a truly national 
ft'orlt, Cot which Burns wrote or amended many songs.] 

Laivn-market, Friday noon, 3 May, 1787. 
Dear Sir, 

I HAVE sent you a song never before known, 
for your collection ; the air by M'Gibbon, but 
I know not the author of the words, as I got it 
from Dr. Blacklock. 

Farewell, my dear Sir! I wished to have seen 
you, but I have been dreadfully throng, as I 
march to-morrow. Had my acquaintance with 
you been a little older, I would have asked the 
favour of your correspondence, as I have met 
with few people whose company and conversa- 
tion gives me so much pleasure, because I have 
met with few whose sentiments are so congenial 
fo my own. 

AVhen Dunbar and you meet, tell him that I 
.ef" Edinburgh with the idea of him hanging 
Bomewhere about my heart. 

Keep the original of the song till we meet 
igain, whenever that may be. R. B. 



LXI. 
TO WILLIAM CREECH, ESQ. 

KDINBURQH. 

I This 'Jharaeteristic letter was written during the 
p.)e' =! burder tour: he narrowly escaped a soaking with 
<w..iBkey, as well as with water; for, according to the 
I tin < Shepherd, "a couple of Yarrow lads, lovers of 
p >eB> Tn<l punch, awaited his corning to Selkirk, but 
^DUiJ jot believe that the parson-looking, black-avised 
au», •,"-ho rode ur. to the inn, more like a drouket craw 
ttjn a p^et^ could be Burns, and so went disappointed 
I way."] 

Selkirk, IZth May, 1787. 
Mr HONOURED Friend, 
Tufc enclosed I have just wro te, nearly ex- 
tempore, in a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a 
miserable wet day's riding. I have been over 
Piosi of East Lothian, Berwick, Roxburgh, and 

• James, Earl of Glencairn 



Selkirk-shires ; and next week I begin a tc la 
through the north of England, Yesterday 1 
dined with Lady Harriet, sister to my noble 
patron,! Qucm Deus conservet! 1 would write till 
I would tire you as much with dull prose, as I 
dare say by this time you are with wretched 
verse, but I am jaded to death ;, so, with a 
grateful farewell, 

I have the honour tc be. 

Good Sir, yours sincerely, 

R. B. 

Auld chuckle Reekie's sair distrest, 
Down drops her ance weel burnish'd crest, 
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest 

Can yield ava ; 
Her darling bird that she loves best, 

Willie's apwa.^ 



LXII. 
TO MR. PATISON, 

BOOKSELLER, PAISLEY. 

[This letter has a business air about it; the name )f 
Patison is nowhere else to be found in the poets coiiea 
pondence.] 

Berry-well, near Dunse, May 17th, 1787 
Dear Sir, 
I am sorry I was out of Edinburgh, making a 
slight pilgrimage lo the classic scenes of tliia 
country, when I was favoured with yours of the 
11th instant, enclosing an order of the Paisley 
banking company on the royal bank, for twenty- 
two pounds seven shillings sterling, payment in 
full, after carriage deducted, for ninety copies 
of my book I sent you. According to your 
motions, I see you will have left Scotland 
before this reaches you, otherwise I would send 
you " Holy Willie" with aU my heart. I was 
so hurried that I absolutely forgot several things 
I ought to have minded, among the rest seuding 
books to Mr. Cowan ; but any order of youra 
will be answered at Creech's shop. Yon will 
please remember that non-subscribers pay six 
shillings, this is Creech's profit; but 'those who 
have subscribed, though their names have been 
neglected in the printed lisi, which is very in- 
correct, are supplied at subscription price. I 
was not at Glasgow, nor do I intend for Lon- 
don ; and I think Mrs. Fame is very idle to teij 

2 See »» en LXXXIII 



I>16 



GLNEEAL CORRESPONDENCE 



BO many lies on a poor poet. AVhen you or Mr. 
Cowan write for copies, if you should want any 
direct to Mr. Hill, at Mr. Creech's shop, and I 
write to Mr. Hill by this post, to answer either 
of your orders. Hill is Mr. Creech's first clerk, 
and Creech himself is presently in London. I 
luppos*; I shall have the pleasure, against your 
©turn t:) Paisley, of assuring you how much I 
sm, dea: Sir, your obliged humble servant, 

R. B. 



LXIII. 
TO W. NICOL, ESQ., 

MASTER OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDINBURGH. 

[/enny Geddes was a zealous old woman, who threw 
the stool on which she sat, at the Dean of Edinburgh's 
heaa, when, in 1637, lie attempted to introduce a Scottish 
Liturgy, and cried as she threw, " Villain, wilt thou say 
the mass at my lug!" The poet named his mare after 
tiUB virago.] 

Carlisle, June 1., 1787. 
Kind, honest-hearted Willie, 

I'm sitten down here after seven and forty 
miles ridin', e'en as forjesket and forniaw'd as 
a forfoughten cock, to gie you some notion o' 
my land lowper-like stravaguin sin the sorrow- 
fu' hour that I sheuk hands and parted wi' auld 
Reekie. 

My auld, ga'd gleyde o' a meere has huch- 
yall'd up hill and down brae, in Scotland and 
England, as teugh and birnie as a vera devil wi' 
me. It's true, she's as poor's a sang-maker and as 
hard's a kirk, and tipper-taipers when she taks 
the gate, first like a lady's gentlewoman in a 
minuwae, or a hen on a het girdle ; but she's a 
yauld, poutherie Girran for a' that, and has a 
Btomack like Willie Stalker's meere that wad 
hae disgeested tumbler-wheels, for she'll whip 
me aff her five stimparts o' the best aits at a 
down-sittin and ne'er fash her thumb. When 
tnce her ringbanes and spavies, her crucks and 
8ramps, are fairly soupl'd, she beets to, beets 
I., and ay the hindmost hour the tightest. I 
OSTild wager her price to a thretty pennies, that 
for twa or three wooks ridin at fifty miles a day, 
the deil-stricket a five gallopers acqueesh Clyde 
and Whithorn could cast saut on her tail. 

I hae dander'd owre a' the kintra frae Dum- 
bar to Selcraig, and hae forgather'd wi' monie 
a guid fallow, and monie a weelfar'd huzzie. I 
met wi' twa d.'nk quines in particular, ane o' 
kiiem a s^nsie, fine, fodgel lass, baith braw and 



bonnie ; the tither was a clean-shankit, straughti 
tight, weelfar'd winch, as blythe'sa lintwhiteona 
flowerie thorn, and as SAveet and modest's a new* 
blawn plumrose in a hazle shaw. They werf 
baith bred to mainers by the beuk, and onie ane 
o' them had as muckle smeddum and rumblegum- 
tion as the half o' some presbytries that you and 
I baith ken. They play'd me sik a deevil o' a 
shavie that I daur say if my harigals wore turn'cl 
out, ye wad see twa nicks i' the heart o' me likt 
the mark o' a kail-whittle in a cactock. 

I was gaun to write you a lang pystle, but, 
Gude forgie me, I gat mysel sae noutouriously 
bitchify'd the day after kail-time, that I can 
hardly stoiter but and ben. 

My best respecks to the guidwife and a' oui 
common friens, especiall Mr. and Mrs. Cruik 
shank, and the honest guidman o' Jock's Lodge. 

I'll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast be 
to the fore, and the branks bide hale. 
Gude be wi' you, Willie ! Amen I 

R. B. 



LXIV. 
TO MR. JAMES SMITH, 

AT MILLER AND SMITH's OFFICE, LINLITHGOW. 

[Burns, it seems by this letter, had still a belief t.hat 
he would be obliged to try his fortune in the West Indies: 
he soon saw how hollow all the hopes were, which had 
been formed by his friends of "pension, post or place," 
in his native land.] 

Mauchline, l\th June, 1787. 
My ever DEAR Sir, 

I DATE this from Mauchline, where I arrived 
on Friday even last. I slept at John Dow's, and 
called for my daughter. Mr. Hamilton and 
family ; your mother, sister, and brother ; my 
quondam Eliza, &c., all well. If anything- had 
been wanting to disgust me completely at Ar- 
mour's family, their mean, servile compliance 
would have done it. 

Give me a spirit like my favourite hero, Mi' 

ton's Satan : 

Hail, horrors ! hai , 
Infernal world ! and thou profoundest nell. 
Receive thy new possessor ! he who I rings 
A mind not to be chang'd by place or time I 

I cannot settle to my mind. — Farming, tTie 
only thing of which i know anything, and 
heaven abova knows but little do I understand 
of that, I cannot, dare not risk on farms ai 
they are. If I do not fix I will go for Jamaica- 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



h\i 



Should I stay in an unsettled state at home, I 
would only dissipate my little fortune, and 
ruin -svhat I intend shall compensate my little 
ones, for tue stigma I have brought on their 
nauiee. 

I shall write you more at large soon ; as this 
letter costs you no postage, if it be worth read- 
ing you cannot complain of your penny-worth. 
I am ever, my dear Fi^, 
Yours, 

R. B. 

P.S. The cloot has unfortunately broke, but 
I have provided a fine buflfalo-horn, on which I 
am going to affix the same cipher which you 
will remember was on the lid of the cloot. 



LXV. 
TO WILLIAM NICOL, ESQ. 

^Ihe charm which Dumfries threw over the poet, 
seems to have dissolved like a spell, when he sat down 
in Ellisland : he spoke, for a time, with little respect of 
Bither place or people.] 

Mauchline, June 18, 1787. 
My dear Friend, 

I AM now arrived safe in my native country, 
after a very agreeable jaunt, and have the plea- 
sure to find all my friends well. I breakfasted 
with your gray-headed, reverend friend, Mr. 
Smith ; and was highly pleased both with the 
cordial welcome he gave me, and his most ex- 
cellent appearance and sterling good sense. 

I have been with Mr. Miller at Dalswinton, 
and am to meet him again in August. From 
my view of the lands, and his reception of my 
hardship, my hopes in that business are rather 
mended ; but still they are but slender. 

I am quite charmed with Dumfries folks — 
Mr. Burnside, the clergyman, in particular, is 
a man whom I shall ever gratefully remember ; 
and his wife, Gude forgie me ! I had almost 
broke the tenth commandment on her account. 
Bimplic'ty, elegance, good sense, sweetness of 
disposition, good humour, kiud hospitality, are 
the constituents of her manner and heart: in 
Bbort — but if I say one word more about her, I 
shall be directly in love with her, 

I never, my friend, thought mankind very ca- 
pable of anything generous; but the stateliness 
»f the patricians in Edinburgh, and the servility 
hi liiy plebeian brethren (who perhaps formerly 
tred me askance) since I returned home. 



have nearly put me out of conceit altogether 
with my species. I have bought a pocket Mil 
ton, which I carry perpetually about with me, 
in order to study the sentiments — the dauntlesi 
magnanimity, the intrepid, unyielding inie- 
pendence, the desperate daring, and noble de^ 
fiance of hardship, in that great personage, Sa* 
TAN. 'Tis true, I have just now a little cash; 
but I am afraid the star that hitherto has shei 
its malignant, purpose-blasting rays full in my 
zenith ; that noxious planet so baneful in its 
influences to the rhyming tribe, I much dread 
it is not yet beneath my horizon. — Misfortune 
dodges the path of human life ; the poetic minu 
finds itself miserably deranged in, and unfit foi 
the walks of business ; add to all, that thought- 
less follies and hare-brained whims, like so many 
ignes fatui, eternally diverging from the right 
line of sober discretion, sparkle with step-be- 
witching blaze in the idly-gazing eyes of the 
poor heedless bard, till, pop, '* he falls like Lu- 
cifer, never to hope again." God grant thia 
may be an unreal picture with respect to me ! 
but should it not, I have very little dependence 
on mankind. I will close my letter with thia 
tribute my heart bids me pay you-— the many 
ties of acquaintance and friends hip which 1 
have, or think I have in life, I haVe felt along 
the lines, and, damn them, they are almost all 
of them of such frail contexture, thai I am sure 
they would not stand the breath of the least ad 
verse breeze of fortune ; but from you, my ev^ 
dear Sir, I look with confidence for the aposto- 
lic love that shall wait on me "through good 
report and bad report" — the love which Solo- 
mon emphatically says "is strong as death." 
My compliments to Mrs. Nicol, and all the ciicle 
of our common friends. 

P. S. I shall be in Edinburgh about the lat 
ter end of July R. B 



LXVl. 
TO MR. JAMES CANDLISII 

[Candlish was a classic scholar, but had p love for th« 
Bongs of Scotland, as well as for the poetry of Greece 
and Rome.] 

Edinburgh^ 1787. 
My dear Friend, 
If once I were gone from this scene of hurry 
and dissipation, I promise myself the pleasure 
of that correspondence being renewed whicb 



B48 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



has been so long broken. At present I have 
time for nothing. Dissipation and business en- 
gross every moment. I am engaged in assist- 
ing an honest Scotch enthusiast,' a friend of 
mioe, who is an engraver, and has taken it into 
his head to publish a collection of all our songs 
Bet t6 music, of which the words and music are 
done by Scotsmen. This, you will easily guess, 
ifi an undertaking exactly to my taste. I have 
collected, begged, borrowed, and stolen, all the 
ftcn 5s I could meet with. Pompey's Ghost, words 
and music, I beg from you immediately, to go 
into his second number: the first is already 
published. I shall show you the first number 
when I see you in Glasgow, which will be in a 
fortnight or less. Do be so kind as to send me 
the song in a day or two ; you cannot imagine 
how much it will oblige me. 

Direct to me at Mr. W: Cruikshank's, St. 
James's Square, New Town, Edinburgh. 

R. B. 



LXVII. 

TO KOBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

[" Burns had a memory stored with the finest poetical 
f>assages, which he was in the habit of quoting most 
iptly m his correspondence with his friends: and he de- 
Jighted also in repeating them in the company of those 
friends who enjoyed them." These are the words of 
k aslie. of Berrywell, to whom this letter is addressed.] 

Arracher, 28th June, 1787. 
My dear Sir, 
I WRITE on my tour through a country where 
savage streams tumble over savage mountains, 
thinly overspread with savage flocks, which 
sparingly support as savage inhabitants. My 
last stage was Inverary — to-morrow night's 
stage Dumbarton. I ought sooner to have an- 
swered your kind letter, but you know I am a 
man of many sins. R B. 



Lxvni. 



TO WILLIAM NICOL, ESQ. 

[This visit to Auchtertyre produced that sweet lyric, 
»«gmmng •' Blythe, blythe and merry was she;" and the 



lady who inspired it was at his side, when he wrote tfait 
.etter.] 

Auchtertyre, Monday, June, 1787. 
My dear Sir, 
I FIND myself very comfortable here, neither 
oppressed by ceremony nor mortified 'by neg« 
lect. Lady Augusta is a most engaging woman, 
and very happy in her family, whic: makea 
one's outgoings and incomings very agreeatle. 
I called at Mr. Ramsay's of Auchtertyre as ] 
came up the country, and am so delighted with 
him that I shall certainly accept of his invitar 
tion to spend a day or two with him 't>i I return. 
I leave this place on Wednesday or Thursday. 
Make my kind compliments to Mr. and Mrs 
Cruikshank and Mrs. Nicol, if she is returned. 
I am ever, dear Sir, 

Your deeply indebted, 

R. B. 



» Johnson, tl e p ublisher and propri-stor of the Musical 



LXIX. 
TO WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK, ESQ. 

ST. JAMES'S SQUARE, EDINBURGH. 

[At the house of William Crn kshank, one .i ir.e mas- 
ters of the High School, m Edinburgh, Burns passed 
many agreeable hours.] 

Auchtertyre, 31onday morning. 
I HAVE nothing, my dear Sir, to write to you 
but that I feel myself exceedingly confortably 
situated in this good family : just notice enough 
to make me easy but not to embarrass me. I was 
storm-staid two days at the foot of the Ochill- 
hills, with Mr. Trait of Herveyston and Mr. 
Johnston of Alva, but was so well pleased that 
I shall certainly spend a day on the banks of 
the Devon as I return. I leave this place I 
suppose on Wednesday, and shall devote a day 
to Mr. Ramsay at Auchtertyre, near St^rlirg: 
a man to whose worth I cannot do justice. Mj 
respectful kind compliments to Mrs. Cruik- 
shank, and my dear little Jeanie, and if you 
see Mr. Masterton, please remember me to him. 
I am ever, 

My dear Sir, &3. 

R. B, 



OF KOBERT BURNS. 



3« 



^ LXX. 

TO M R. J A M E S S M I T H, 

LINLITHGOW. 

f n e young ladr to whom the poet alludes in this let- 
kei, was very beautiful, and very proud : it is said she 
fa "6 him a specimen of both her temper and her pride, 
whr)n he tj-id ed on the subject of love.] 

June 30, 1787. 
My dear Friend, 

On our return, at a Highland gentleman's 
lK)spitable mansion, we fell in with a merry 
party, and danced till the ladies left us, at three 
in the morning. Our dancing was none of the 
French or English insipid formal movements ; 
the ladies sung Scotch songs like angels, at 
intervals ; then we flew at Bab at the Bowster, 
TuUochgorum, Loch Ei-roch Side, &c., like 
midges sporting in the mottie sun, or craws 
prognosticating a storm in a hairst day. — When 
the dear lasses left us, we ranged round the 
bowl till the good-fellow hour of six; except a 
few minutes that we went- out to pay our devo- 
tions to the glorious lamp of day peering over 
the towering top of Benloraond. We all kneeled ; 
our worthy landlords son held the bowl; each 
man a full glass in his hand ; and I, as priest, 
repeated some rhyming nonsense, like Thomas- 
a-Pihymer's prophecies I suppose. — After a small 
refreshment of the gifts of Somnus, we pro- 
ceeded to spend the day on Lochlomond, and 
reach Dumbarton in the evening. We dined at 
another good fellow's house, and consequently, 
pushed the bottle ; when we went out to mount 
t)ur horses, we found ourselves "No vera fou 
but gay lie yet." My two friends and I rode 
soberly down the Loch side, till by came a 
E:ghlandman at the gallop, on a tolerably 
good horse, but which had never known the 
cicaments of iron or leather. We scorned to be 
cut-galloped by a Highlandman, so off we 
Started, whip and spur. My companioned though 
ffcemingly gaily mounted, fell sadly astern ; but 
my old mare, Jenny Geddes, one of the Rosinante 
family, she strained past the Highlandman in 
Bpite of all his efforts with the hair halter ; just 
as I was passing him, Donald wheeled his horse, 
as if to cross before me to mar my progress, 
when down came his horse, and threw his rider's 
breekless a — e in a dipt hedge ; and down came 
Jenny Geddes over all, and my hardship be- 
tween her and the Ilighlandman's horse. Jenny 
Reddes trode over me with such cautious re- 
ference, tnat matters were not so bad as might 



well have been expected ; so I came off with a 
few cuts and bruises, and a thorough resolution 
to be a pattern of sobriety for the future, 

J have yet fixed on nothing with respect to 
the serious business of life. I am, just as usual^ 
a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless, idla 
fellow. However, I shall somewhere have a 
farm soon. I was going to say, a wife too ; bnt 
that must never be my blessed lot. I am but a 
younger son of the house 3f Parnassus, and 
like other younger sons of great families, I may 
intrigue, if I choose to run all risks, but must 
not marry. 

I am afraid 1 have almost ruined one source 
the principal one, indeed, of my former happi 
ness ; that eternal propensity I always had tc 
fall in love. My heart no more glows with ffs- 
verish rapture. I have no paradisaical evening 
interviews, stolen from the restless cares and 
prying inhabitants of this weary world. I have 
only * * * *. This^last is one of your distant 
acquaintances, has a fine figure, and elegant 
manners ; and in the train of some great folks 
whom you know, has seen the politest quarters 
in Europe. I do like her a good deal ; but what 
piques mei is her conduct at the commencement 
of our acquaintance. I frequently visited her 

when I was in , and after passing regii 

I larly the intermediate degrees between the dis 

I tant formal bow and the familiar grasp round 

{ the waist, I ventured, in my careless way, to 

talk of friendship in rather ambiguous terms; 

and after her return to — ■ , I wrote to her 

in the same style. Miss, construing my words 
farther I suppose than even I intended, flew off 
in a tangent of female dignity and reserve, like 
amounting lark in an April morning ; and wrote 
me an answer which measured me out very com- 
pletely what an immense way I had to travel 
before I could reach the climate of her favour 
But I am an old hawk at the sport, and wrot> 
her such a cool, deliberate, prudent reply, as 
brought my bird from her aerial towerings, pep, 
down at my foot, like Corporal Trim's hat 

As for the rest of my acts, and my wars, and 
all my wise sayings, and why my mare Mui 
called Jenny Geddes, they shall be recorded i^ 
a few weeks hence at Linlithgow, in the chr> 
nicies of your memory, by R B 



S50 



GENEEAL CORRESPONDENCE 



LXXI. 
TO MR JOHN RICHMOND. 

[M ; J>hn Richmond, writer, was one of the poet's 
B.-rliest and firmest friends ; he shared his rootf with him 
■vheii they met in Edinburgh, and did him many little 
Jtficas of kindness and regard.] 

Mossgiel, 1th July, 1787. 
My pear Richmond, 

I AM all impatience to hear of your fate since 
the old confounder of right and wrong has 
turned you out of place, by his journey to an- 
8"Rer his indictment at the bar of the other 
world. He will find the practice of the court so 
different from the practice in which he has for 
80 many years been thoroughly hackneyed, that 
his friends, if he had any connexions truly of 
that kind, which I rather doubt, may well 
tremble for his sake. His chicane, his left- 
handed wisdom, which stood so firmly by him, 
to such good purpose, here, like other accom- 
plices in robbery and plunder, will, now the 
piratical business is blown, in all probability 
turn the king's evidences, and then the devil's 
bagpiper will touch him off " Bundle and go !" 

If he has left you any legacy, I beg your par- 
don for all this ; if not, I know you will swear 
to every word I said about him. 

I have lately been rambling over by Dumbar- 
ton and Inverary, and running a drunken race 
on the side of Loch Lomond with a wild High- 
sandman ; his horse, which had never known 
fche ornaments of iron or leather, zigzagged 
across before my old spavin'd hunter, whose 
name is Jenny Geddes, and down came the 
Highlandman, horse and all, and down came 
Jenny and my hardship ; so I have got such a 
?kinful of bruises and wounds, that t shall be 
at loaat, four weeks before I dare venture on my 
journey to Edinburgh. 

Not one new thing under the sun has hap- 
pened ii Maiichline since you left it. I hope 
:bis W\\\ find you as comfortably situated as 
formerly or, if heaven pleases, more so ; but, 
ftl all events, I trust you will let me know of 
course how matters stand with you, well or ill. 
'Tis but poor consolation to tell the world when 
natters go wrong ; but you know very well your 
•onnexion and mine stands on a different 
'oflting. 

I am ever, my dear friend, yours, 
R. B. 



LXXII. 
TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

[This letter, were proof wanting, shows the friendl'J 
and familiar footing on which Burns stood with th« 
Ainslies, and more particular!)' with the author of thai 
popular work, the "Reasons for the Hope that isinui.'l 

Mauchline, 23c? July, 1787, 
My dear Ainslie, 
There is one thing for which I set gr*at stora 
by you as a friend, and it is this that I have not 
a friend upon earth, besides your«plf, to whom 
I can talk nonsense without forfeiting some de- 
gree of his esteem. Now, to one like me, who 
never cares for speaking anything else but non- 
sense, such a friend as you is an invaluable 
treasure. I was never a rogue, but have b^en 
a fool all my life ; and, in spite of all my endea- 
vours, I see now plainly that I shall never be 
wise. Now it rejoices my heart to have mnt 
with such a fellow as you, who, thoagn you are 
not just such a hopeless fool as I, yet I trust 
you will never listen so much to the temptations 
of the devil as to grow so very wise that you 
will in the least disrespect an honest follow be- 
cause he is a fool. In short, I have set you down 
as the staff of my old age, when the whole list 
of my friends will, after a decent share of pity, 
have forgot me. 

Though in the morn comes sturt and strife, 

Yet joy may come at noon ; 
And I hope to live a merry, merry life 

When a' tliir days are done. 

Write me soon, were it but a few lines just to 
tell me how that good sagacious man your 
father is — that kind dainty body your mother- 
that strapping chiel your brother Douglas — and 
my friend Rachel, who is as far before Rachel 
of old, as she was before her blear-eyed sister 
Leah. R. B 



LXXIII. 
TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

[The " savage hospitAlity,"of wl.ich Burns compi-; » 
in this letter, was at that time an evil fashion ^n Scotlaad ' 
the bottle was made to circulate rapidly, and every glasi 
was drunk " clean caup out."] 

Mauchline, July, 1787. 
My dear Sm, 
My life, since I saw you last, has been one 
continued hurry; that savage hospitality whick 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



S5\ 



Itnocks a man down with strong liquors, is the 
devil. I lave a sore warfare in this world; the 
devil, the world, and the flesh are three formi- 
dable foes. The first I generally try to fly from ; 
the second, alas ! generally flies from me ; but 
the third is my plague, worse than the ten 
plagups of Egypt 

I Lave been looking over several farms in this 
oovintry ; one in particular, in Nithsdale, pleased 
n\f so well, that if my offer to the proprietor is 
Ro«;epted, I shall commence farmer at Whit- 
Sunday. If farming do not appear eligible, I 
shall have recourse to my other shift: but this 
to a f 1 lend. 

1 set out for Edinburgh on Monday morning; 
aow long I stay there is uncertain, but you will 
know so soon as I can inform you myself. How- 
ever I determine, poesy must be laid aside for 
some time ; my mind has been vitiated with 
idleness, and it will take a good deal of effort 
to habituate it to the routine of business. 
I am, my dear Sir, 

Yours sincerely, 

R. B. 



LXXIV. 
TO DR. MOORE. 



[Dr. Moore was one of the first to point out thebeauty of 
ihe lyric compositions of Burns. "'Green grow the 
R, ishes,' and of rhe two songs," says he, " which follow, 
beginning 'Again rejoicing nature sees,' and 'The 
g;lot)my night is gathering fist;' the latter is exquisite. 
By the way, I imagine you have a peculiar talent for such 
cotnpo.'sitions v/hich you ought to indulge: no kind of 
ooeiry deniaudfi more delicacy or higher polishing." On 
',liis lette; to Moore all the biographies of Burns are 
'ounded.] 



Sir, 



Mauchline, 2d August, 1787. 



FoK some months past I have been rambling 
»ver the country, hut I am now confined with 
f-ioe lluifering complaints, criginating, as I take 
it 11 the stomach. To divert mj spirits a little 
In th 1 miserable fog of ennui, 1 have taken a 
whim to give you a history of myself. My name 
has m'^do t^ome little noise in this country; you 
have done me the honour to interest yourself 
very warmly in my behalf; and I think a faith- 
ful account of what character of a man I am, 
an I how I came by that character, may perhaps 
imuse you in an idle moment. I will give you 
»n honest narrative, though I know it will be 
often at my own expense ; for I assure you, Sir, 



I have, like Solomon, whose character, except 
ing in the trifling affair of wisdom, I g-nmetimes 
think I resemble, — 1 have, I say, like him turned 
my eyes to behold madness and folly, and 
like him, too, frequently shaken hands with theil 
intoxicating friendship. — After you have pe- 
rused these pages, should you think them trifling 
and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell you, 
that the poor author wrote them under som* 
twitching qualms of conscience, arising from a 
suspicion that he was doing what he ought not 
to do ; a predicament he has more than once 
been in before. 

I have not the most distant pretensions to as- 
sume that character which the pye-coated guar- 
dians of escutcheons call a gentleman. When 
at Edinburgh last winter, I got acquainted in 
the herald's office ; and, looking through that 
granary of honours, I there found almost everv 
name in the kingdom ; but for me, 

"My ancient but ignoble blood 
Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the fljod." 

Pope. 

Gules, purpure, argent, &c., quite disowned me 
My father was of the north of Scotland, the 
son of a farmer, and was thrown by early mis 
fortunes on the world at large ; where, afteT 
many years' wanderings and sojournings, he 
picked up a pretty large quantity of observa- 
tion and experience, to which I am indebted for 
most of my little pretensions to wisdom — I have 
met with few who understood men, their man- 
ners, and their ways, equal to him ; but stub- 
born, ungainly integrity, and headlong, ungo- 
vernable irascibility, are disqualifying circum- 
stances ; consequently, I was born a very poor 
man's son. For the first six or seven years of 
my life, my father was gardener to a worthy 
gentleman of small estate in the neighbourhood 
of Ayr. Had he continued in that station I 
must have marched off to be one of the litilc 
underlings about a farm-house ; but it was hia 
dearest wish and prayer to have it in his powe? 
to keep his children under his own eye, till they 
could discern between good and evil ; so, with 
the assistance of his generous master, my father 
ventured on a small farm on his estate. At 
those years, I was by no means a favourite 
with anybody. I was a good deal noted for a 
retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy something 
in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot 
piety. I say idiot piety, because 1 was then 

1 Idiot for idiotic . 



352 



GENERAL CORRESPONDJiJJSrCE 



b'Jt a child. Though it 308t the schoolmaster 
some thrashings, I made an excellent English 
scholar ; and by the time I was ten or eleven years 
of age, I was a critic in substantives, verbs, and 
particles. In my infant and boyish days, too, 
I owed much to an old woman who resided in 
the family, remarkable for her ignorance, cre- 
dulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose, 
the largest collection in the country of tales and 
songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brow- 
nies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf- 
eandles, deadlights, wraiths, apparitions, can- 
traips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and 
oMier trumpery. This cultivated the latent 
gepds of poetry ; but had so strong an effect on 
my imagination, that to this hour, in my noc- 
turnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp look 
out in suspicious places ; and though nobody 
can be moic sceptical than I am in such mat- 
ters, ;^et it often takes an effort of philosophy 
to shake off these idle terrors. The earliest 
composition that I recollect taking pleasure in, 
was The Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addi- 
son's bepnning, *' How are thy servants blest, 

Lord !" I particularly remember one half- 
Btanza which was music to ray boyish ear — • 

" For though in dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the broken wave — " 

1 met with these pieces in Mason's English Col- 
lection, one of my school-books. The first two 
books I ever read in private, and which gave me 
more pleasure than any two books I ever read 
«ince, were The Life of Hannibal, and The Histo- 
ry of Sir William Wallace, liannibal gave my 
young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in 
raptures up and down after the recruiting drum 
and bag-pipe, and wish myself tall enough to 
be a soldier; while the story of Wallace poured 

' a Scottish prejudice into my veins, which will 
boil along there till the floodgates of life shut 
in eternal rest. 

Polemical divinity about this time was putting 
th*^ country half mad, and I, ambitious of shin- 
ing in conversation parties on Sundays, between 
sermons, at funerals, &c., used a few years after- 
wards to puzzle Calvinism with so much heat 
and indiscretion, that I raised a hue and cry of 
heresy against me, which has not ceased to this 
hour. 

My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage to 
me. My social disposition, when not checked 
t)y some modifications of spirited pride, was like 
»ur catechian definition of infinitude, without 



bounds or limits. I formed several connexionB 
with other younkers, who possessed superior ad- 
vantages ; the youngling actors who were busy 
in the rehearsal of parts, in which they were 
shortly to appear on the stage of life, where, 
alas ! I was destined to drudge behind the 
scenes. It is not commonly at this green age, 
that our young gentry have a just sense of the 
immense distance between them and their ragged 
playfellows. It takes a few da^-hes into the 
world, to give the young great man that proper, 
decent, unnoticing disregard for the poor, insig- 
nificant stupid devils, the mechanics and .pea- 
santry around him, who were, perhaps, Viorn in 
the same village. My young superiors never 
insulted theclouterly appearance of my plough 
boj^carcase, the two extremes of whicli were 
often exposed to all the inclemencies of all the 
seasons. They would give me stray volumes of 
books ; among them, even then, I eould pick up 
some observations, and one, whose heart, I am 
sure, not even the " Munny Begum" scenes hav« 
tainted, helped me to a little French. Parting 
with these my young friends and benefactors, as 
they occasionally went off for the East or West 
Indies, was often to me a sore affliction ; but 1 
was soon called to more serious evils. My 
father's generous master died ! the farm proved 
a ruinous bargain ; and to clench the misfortune, 
we fell into the hands of a factor, who sat for 
the picture I have drawn of one in my tale of 
" The Twa Dogs." My father was advanced in 
life when he married ; I was the eldest of seven 
children, and he, worn out by early hardships, 
was unfit for labour. My father's spirit waa 
soon irritated, but not easily broken. There 
was a freedom in his lease in two years more, 
and to weather these two years, we retrenched 
our expenses. We lived very poorly ; I was a 
dexterous ploughman for my age ; and the next 
eldest to me was a brother (Gilbert), who coul J 
drive the plough very well, and help me to 
thrash the corn. A novel-writer might, perhaps, 
have viewed these scenes with some satisfac- 
tion, but so did not I ; my indignation yet boils 
at the recollection of the scoundrel factor's in- 
solent threatening letters, which used to set us 
all in tears. 

This kind of life — the cheerless gloom pf a 
hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley- 
slave, brought me to my sixteenth year ; a little 
before which period I first committed the sin of 
rhyme. You know our country custom of sou 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



35o 



pliug' a man and woman together as partners in 
the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn, 
my partner was a bewitching creature, a year 
younger than myself. My scarcity of English 
denies me the power of doing her justice in that 
'auguage, but you know the Scottish idiom: she 
was a " bounie, sweet, sonsie lass." In short, 
slie, altogether unwittingly tc herself, initiated 
me in that delicious passion which, in spite of 
acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and 
bookworm philosophy, I hold to be the first of 
human joys, our dearest blessing here below! 
riow she caught the contagion I cannot tel). ; 
/ou medical people talk much of infection from 
breathing the same air, the touch, &c.; but 1 
never expressly said i loved her. — Indeed, I did 
not know myself why I liked so much to loiter 
behind with her, when returning in the evening 
from our labours ; why the tones of her voice 
made my heart-strings thrill like an ^olian 
harp ; and particularly why my pulse beat such 
a furious ratan, when I looked and fingered over 
her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle-stings 
and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring 
qualities, she sung sweetly ; and it was her fa- 
vourite reel to which I attempted giving an em- 
bodied vehicle in ryhme. I was not so presump- 
tuous as to imagine that I could make verses 
I like printed ones, composed by men who had 
I (xreek and Latin; but my girl sung a song 
which was said to be composed by a small coun- 
try laird's son, on one of his father's maids, 
with whom he was in love ; and I saw no rea- 
son why I might not rhyme as well as he ; for 
excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast 
peats, his father living in the moorlands, he had 
no more scho»ar-craft than myself. 

Thus with me began love and poetry ; which 
•It times have been my only, and till within the 
Ifi^t twelve months, have been my highest en- 
jov i«i{^ut. My father struggled on till he reached 
i!ic freedom in his lease, when he entered on a 
arger farm, about ten miles farther in the coun- 
try. The nature of the bargain he made was 
such as to throw a little ready money into his 
iiands at the commencement of his lease, other- 
wise the affair would have been impracticable. 
For four years we lived comfortably here, but a 
difference commencing between him and his 
landlord as to terms, after three years tossing 
and whirling in the vortex of litigation, my father 
was just saved from the horrors of a jail, by a 
consumption, which, after two years' promises, 



kindly stepped in, and carried him away, to 
where the wicked cease from troubling, and 
where the weary are at rest ! 

It is during the time that we lived on this farm 
that my little story is most eventful. I was, at 
the beginning of this period, perhaps, the most 
ungainly awkward boy in the parish — no solitairt: 
was less acquainted with the ways of the world. 
What I knew of ancient story wab gathered 
from Salmon's and Guthrie's GeograpJiica*' 
Grammars ; and the ideas I had formed of mo 
dern manners, of literature, and criticism, I got 
from the Spectator, These, with Pope's Works, 
some Plays of Shakspeare, Tuli and Dickson on 
Agriculture, the Pantheon, Locke's Essay on 
the Human Understanding, Stackhouse's His 
tory of the Bible, Justice's British Gardener's 
Directory, Boyle's Lectures, Allan Ramsay's 
Works, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original 
Sin, A Select Collection of English Songs, and 
Hervey's Meditations, had formed the whole of 
my reading. The collection of Songs was my 
vade mecum. I pored over them, driving my 
cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse 
by verse ; carefully noting the true tender, or 
sublime, from affectation and fustian. I am con- 
vinced I owe to this practice much of my critic 
craft, such as it is. 

In my seventeenth year, to give my manners 
a brush, I went to a country dancing-school, 
My father had an unaccountable antipathy 
against these meetings, and my going was, what 
to this moment I repent, in opposition to hin 
wishes. My father, as I said before, was sub- 
ject to strong passions ; from that instance of 
disobedience in me, he took a sort of dislike to 
me, which, I believe, was one cause of the dissi- 
pation which marked my succeeding jii<i.Vi. I 
say dissipation, com.paratively with the strict- 
ness, and sobriety, and regularity of Preshy 
terian country life ; for though the will-o'-wiirp 
meteors of thoughtless whim were almost the sole 
lights of my path, yet early ingrained piety and 
virtue kept me for several years afterwaide 
within the line of innocence. The scr'^ot. xm% 
fortune of my life was to want an aim. I ha(( 
felt early some stirrings of ambition, but they 
were the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops 
round the walls of his cave. I saw my father's 
situation entailed on me perpetual labour 
Th.e only two openings by which I could ente; 
the temple of fortune were the gate of nig- 
gardly economy, or the path of little chican' 



854 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



injr bargain-making. The first is so contracted 
An aperture I never could squeeze myself into 
it- -the last I always hated — there was con- 
tamination in the very entrance ! Thus aban- 
doned of aim or view in life, with a strong 
appetite for sociability, as well from native 
hilarity as from a pride of observation and re- 
mark ; a constitutional melancholy or hypochon- 
driasm that made me fly solitude; add to these 
incentives to social life, my reputation for book- 
ish knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, 
and a strength of thought, something like the 
rudiments of good sense; and it will not seem 
Bui'prising that I was generally a welcome guest 
whore I visited, or any great wonder that 
always, where two or three met together, there 
was I among them. But far beyond all other 
imj'ulses of mj heart, was un penchant d V adora- 
ble moitie du genre humain. My heart was com- 
pletely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by 
Bowe goddess or other ; and, as in every other 
warfare in this world, my fortune was various ; 
Bometimes I was received with favour, and some- 
times 1 was mortified with a repulse. At the 
pi )ugh, scythe, or reap-hook, I feared no com- 
f etitor, and thus I set absolute want at defiance; 
and as I never cared farther for mj labours 
than while I was in actual exercise, I spent the 
evenings in the way after my own heart. A 
country lad seldom carries on a love adventure 
without an assisting confidant. I possessed a 
curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity that re- 
commended me as a proper second on these 
occasions; and I dare say, I felt as much plea- 
sure in being in the secret of half the loves of 
the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did statesman 
in knowing the intrigues of half the courts of 
Europe. The very goose-feather in my hand 
Beemg to know instinctively the well-worn path of 
my imagination, the favourite theme of my song ; 
and is with difficulty restrained from giving you 
t cduple of paragraphs on the love-adventures 
tff my compeers, the humble inmates of the 
fBTm house and cottage: but the grave sons of 
science, ambition, or avarice baptize these 
things by the name of follies. To the sons and 
daughters of labour and poverty they are mat- 
ters of the most serioufc nature : to them the 
ardent hope, the stolen interview, the tender 
farewell, are the greatest and most delicious 
parts of their enjoyments. 

Another circumstance in my life which made 
Krae alteration in my minfl and mamners, was. 



that I spent my nineteenth summer on a smug- 
gling coast, a good distance from home, at a 
noted school to learn mensuration, surveyinj^, 
dialling, &c., in which I made a pretty good 
progress. But I made a greater progress in- 
the knowledge of mankind. The contrabaad 
trade was at that time very successful, an<i \\ 
sometimes happened to me to fall in with thcs€ 
who carried it on. Scenes of swagg( ring rio< 
and roaring dissipation were, till this time, i€f» 
to me ; but I was no enemy to social life. Here, 
though I learnt to fill my gla&s, and to mix 
without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went 
on with a high hand with my geometry, till the 
sun entered Virgo, a month which is always a 
carnival in my bosom, when a charming fillette, 
who lived next door to the school, overset my 
trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent from 
the spheres of my studies. I, however, struggled 
on with my sines and co-sines for a few days 
more ; but stepping into the garden one charm- 
ing noon to take the sun's altitude, there I met 
my angel, 

" Like Proserpine gathering flowers, 
Herself a fairer flower "i 

It was in vain to think of doing any more 
good at school. The remaining week I stayed I 
did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul 
about her, or steal eut to meet her ; and the 
two last nights of my stay in the country, had 
sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this modest 
and innocent girl had kept me guiltless. 

I returned home very considerably improved. 
My reading was enlarged with the very import- 
ant addition of Thomson's and Shenstone'a 
works ; I had seen human nature in a new 
phasis ; and I engaged several of my schoolfel- 
lows to keep up a literary correspondence with 
me. This improved me in composition. I had 
met with a collection of letters by the wits cf 
Queen Anne's reign, and I pored over them 
most devoutly. I kept copies of any of my own 
letters that pleased me, and a comparison be- 
tween them and the comp.-sition of most of mj 
correspondents flattered my vjraity. I carried 
this whim so far, that though I had not three- 
farthings' worth of business in the world, -yet 
almost every post brought me as many letters 
as if I had been a broad plodding son of thf 
day-book and ledger. « 

My life flowed on riuch in the same coursf 

1 ParadJRA liOst, b ««f 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



35; 



till my twenty-third year. Vive Vamour, et vive 
la bagatelle, were my sole principles of action. 
Tlie addition of two more authors to my library 
gare me great pleasure; Sterne and Mackenzie 
— Tristram Shandy ^nd the M^n of Feeling were 
aiy bosom favourites. Poesy was still a darling 
walk for my mind, but it was only indulged in 
a^'cording to the huaiour of the hour. I had 
ia?aally half -x dozen or more pieces on hand ; I 
t(>.)k up one or other, as it suited the momentary 
tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as it 
bordered on fatigue. My passions, when once 
lighted up raged like so many devils, till they 
got vent in rhyme ; and then the conning over 
my verses, like a spell, soothed all into quiet! 
None of the rhymes of those days are in print, 
except " Winter, a dirge," the eldest of my 
printed pieces ; " The Death of poor Maillie," 
*' John Barleycorn," and songs first, second, and 
third. Song second was the ebullition of that 
passion which ended the forementioned school- 
business. 

My twenty-third j'ear was to me an import- 
j ant aera. Partly through whim, and partly 
I that I wished to set about doing something in 
1 life, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouring 
town (Irvine) to learn his trade. This was an 
unlucky affair. My * * * and to finish the 
whole, as we were giving a welcome carousal to 
the new year, the shop took fire and burnt to 
ashes, and I was left, like a true poet, not worth 
a sixpence. 

( was obliged to give up this scheme ; the 
clouds of misfortune were gathering thick round 
my father's head ; and, what was worst of all, 
he was visibly far gone in a consumption ; and 
to crown my distresses, a belle fille, whom I 
adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet 
me in the field of matrimony, jilted me, with 
poculiar circumstances of mortification. The 
finishing evil that brought up the rear of this 
infprnal file, was my constitutional melancholy 
being increased to such a degree, that for three 
aioQths I was in a state of mind scarcely to be 
envied by the hopeless wretches who have got 
heir mittimus — depart from me, ye cursed! 

From this adventure I learned something of a 
lown life ; but the principal thing which gave 
my mind a turn, was a friendship I formed wich 
I, young feltow, a very noble character, but a 
lapless son of misfortune. He was the son of 
w simple mechanic : but a great man in the 
^^ighbou''hcod taking him under his patronage, 



gave him a genteel education, with a view of 
bettering his situation in life. The patron 
dying just as he was ready to launch out into 
the world, the poor fellow in despair went to 
sea ; where, after a variety of good and ill for- 
tune, a little before I was acquainted with hioi 
he had been set on shore by an American pri 
vateer, on the wild coast of Connaught. strip 
ped of everything. I cannot quit this poor fel 
low's story without adding, that he is at this 
time master of a large West-Indiaman belonging 
to the Thames. 

His mind was fraught with independence, 
magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved 
and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm, and 
of course strove to imitate him. In some mea- 
sure I succeeded ; I had pride before, but h6 
taught it to flow in proper channels. His know- 
ledge of the world was vastly superior to mine, 
and I was all attention to learn. He was the 
only man I ever saw who was a greater fool than 
myself where woman was the presiding star ; 
but he spoke of illicit love with the levity of a 
sailor, which hitherto I had regarded with hor- 
ror. Here his friendship did me a mischief, and 
the consequence was, that soon after I resumed, 
the plough, I wrote the "Poet's Welcome."* 
My reading only increased while in this town 
by two stray volumes of Pamela, and one of 
Ferdinand Count Fathom, which gave me some 
idea of novels. Rhj^me, except some religious 
pieces that are in print, I had given up ; but 
meeting with Fergusson's Scottish Poems, I 
strung anew my wildly-sounding lyre with emu- 
lating vigour. When my father died, his all 
went among the hell-hounds that growl in the 
kennel of justice ; but we made a shift tp col- 
lect a little money in the family amongst ua 
with which, to keep us together, my brother and 
1 took a neighbouring farm. My brother want . 
ed my hair-brained imagination, as well as my 
social and amorous madness ; but in good senne 
and every sober qualification, ho was far my f u 
perior. 

I entered on this farm with a full resolution; 
"come, go to, I will be wisel" I read farming 
books, I calculated crops ; I attended markets j 
and i]^ short, in spite of the devil, and the world, 
and the flesh, I believe I should have been a 
wise man ; but the first year, from unfortunately 
buying bad seed, the second from' a late har- 



I " Rob the Rhymer's Welcome to his Bastard Chi'd 
— See Puom XXXIII. 



356 



GENERAL COI RESPONDENCE 



vest, we lost half our crops. This overset all 
my wisdom, and I returned, "like the dog to 
his vomit, and the sow that was washed, to her 
wallowing in the mire." 

I now began to be known in the neighbourhood 
as a maker of rhymes. The first of my poetic 
ofispring that saw the Ught, was a burlesque la- 
aientation on a quarrel between two reverend 
Oalvinists, both of them dramatis personcB in 
** Holy Fair." I had a notion myself that 
the piece had some merit ; but, to prevent 
the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend, 
who was very fond of such things, and told him 
that I could not guess who was the author of it, 
but that I thought it pretty clever. With a cer- 
tain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it 
met with a roar of applause. *' Holy Willie's 
Prayer" next made its appearance, and alarmed 
the kirk-session so much, that they held several 
meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, if 
haply any of it might be pointed against pro- 
fane rhymers. Unluckily for me, my wander- 
ings led me on another side, within point-blank 
shot of their heaviest metal. This is the unfor- 
tunate story that gave rise to my printed poem, 
•' The Lament." This was a most melancholy 
atfair, which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and 
had very nearly given me one or two of the 
principal qualifications for a place among those 
who have lost the chart, and mistaken the reck- 
oning of rationality. I gave up my part of 
the farm to my brother ; in truth it was only 
nominally mine ; and made what little prepara- 
tion was in my power for Jamaica. But, before 
leaving my native country for ever, I resolved 
to publish my poems. I weighed my produc- 
tions as impartially as was in my power ; I 
thought they had merit ; and it was a deli- 
cious idea that I should be called a clever fellow, 
even though it should never reach my earo — a 
poor negro-driver — or perhaps a victim to that 
inhospitable clime, and gone to the world of 
spirits ! I can truly say, that pauvre inconnu as 
I then was, I had pretty nearly as high an idea 
of myself and of my works as I have at this 
OiDmeut, when the public has decided in their 
favour. It ever was my opinion that the mis- 
takes and blunders, both in a rational and reli- 
gious point of view, of which we see thousands 
daily guilty, are owing to their ignorance of 
themselves. — To know myself had been all along 
my constant study. I weighed myself alone ; I 
Salanced myself with others ; I watched every 



means of information, to see how much ground 
I occupied as a man and as a poet; I studied 
assiduously Nature's design in my formation — 
where the lights and shades in my character 
were intended. I was pretty confident my poema 
would meet with some applause ; but, at the 
worst, the roar of the Atlantic would deafen 
the voice of censure, and the novelty of Wesi 
Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I thre-vf 
off six hundred copies, of which I had got sub- 
scriptions for about three hundred and fifty.— 
My vanity was highly gratified by the reception 
I met with from the public ; and besides I | 
pocketed, all expenses deducted, nearly twenty 
pounds. This sum came very seasonably, as I 
was thinking of indenting myself, for want of 
money to procure my passage. As soon as I 
was master of nine guineas, the price of waft- 
ing me to the torrid zone, I took a steerage pas- 
sage in the first ship that was to sail from the 
Clyde, for 

'< Hungry ruin had me m the wind." 

I had been for some days skulking from 
covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail; 
as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the 
merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had 
taken the last farewell of my few friends ; my 
chest was on the road to Greenock ; I had com- 
posed the last song I should ever measure in 
Caledonia — "The gloomy night is gathering 
fast," when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a 
friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes, by 
opening new prospects to my poetic ambition. 
The doctor belonged to a set of critics for whose 
applause I had not dared to hope. His opinion, 
that I would meet with encouragement in 
Edinburgh for a second edition, fired me so 
much, that away I posted for that city, without 
a single acquaintance, or a single letter of in- 
troduction. The baneful star that had so long 
shed its blasting influence in my zenith, for once 
made a revolution to the nadir; and a kin 3 
Providence placed me under the patronage 
»f one of the noblest of men, the Earl of Glen- 
cairn. Oublie-moi, grand Dieu, si jamais jt 
Voublie! 

I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I 
was in a new world ; I mingled among many 
classes of men, but all of them new to me, and 
I was all attention to "catch" the characters 
and "the manners living as they rise." Whe- 
ther I have profited, time will show. 



OF E-OBERT BURNS. 



35. 



My most respectful compliments to Miss Wil- 
liamB. Her very elegant and friendly letter I 
cannot answer at present, as my presence is re- 
q[uisite in Edinburgh, and I set out to-morrow. 

R. B. 



LXXV. 

TC ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ., 

BERRYWELL DUNSE. 

(This characteristic letter was first published by Sir 
Ham's Nicolas ; others, still more characteristic, ad- 
iressed to the same gentleman, are abroad : how they 
•scajaed from private keeping is a sort of a riddle.] 

Edinburgh, 2iid August, 1787. 

"As I gaed up to Dunse 
To warp a pickle yarn, 
Robin, silly body. 
He gat me wi' bairn." 

From henceforth, my dear Sir, I am deter- 
mined to set olF with my letters like the period- 
ical writers, viz. prefix a kind of text, quoted 
from some classic of undoubted authority, such 
as the author of the immortal piece, of which 
my text is a part. What I have to say on my 
text is exhausted in a letter which I wrote you 
the other day, before I had the pleasure of re- 
ceiving yours from Inverkeithing ; and sure 
never was anything more lucky, as I have but 
the t'".no to write this, that Mr. Nicol, on the 
opposite side of the table, takes to correct a 
proof-sheet of a thesis. They are gabbling 
Latin so loud that I cannot hear what my own 
soul is saying in my own skull, so I must just 
give you a matter-of-fact sentence or two, and 
end, if time permit, with a verse de rei genera- 
tione. To-morrow I leave Edinburgh in a 
chaise ; Nicol thinks it more comfortable than 
horseback, to which I say. Amen ; so Jenny 
Geddos goes home to Ayrshire, to use a phrase 
•f my mother's, wi' her finger in her mouth. 

No^r fcr a modest verse of classical authority: 

The cats like kitchen ; 

The dogs like broo ; 
The lasses like the lads weel. 

And th' auld wives too. 

CHORUS. 

And we're a' noddin, 

Nid, nid, noddin. 
We re a' noddin fou at c'sn. 



If this does not please you, let me hear from 
you; if you write auy time before the 1st o/ 
September, direct to Inverne?s, to be left at the 
post-oflfice till called for; the next weat At 
Aberdeen, the next at Edinburgh. 

The sheet is done, and I shall just conclui* 
with assuring you that 

I am, and ever with pride shall be, 
My dear Sir, &c. 

R B. 

Call your boy what you think proper, onlj 
interject Burns. What do you say to a Scrip- 
ture name ? Zimri Bui-ns Aiuslie, or Archito- 
phel, &c., look your Bible for these two heroes 
if you do this, I will repay the complimenf 



LXXVI. 



TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. 

[No Scotsman will ever read, without emotion, thi 
poet's words in this letter, and in " Scots wha hae w< 
Wallace bled," about Bannockburn and its glories J 

Stirlmg, 2%th August, 1787 
My dear Sir, 
I INTENDED to have written you from Edin- 
burgh, and now write you from Stirling to make 
an excuse. Here am I, on my way to Inver- 
ness, with a truly original, but very worthy 
man, a Mr. Nicol, one of the masters of the 
High-school, in Edinburgh. I left Auld Reekie 
yesterday morning, and have passed, besides 
by-excursions, Linlithgow, Borrowstouness, Fal- 
kirk, and here am I unioubtedly. This morn- 
ing I knelt at the tomb of Sir John the Graliam, 
the gallant friend of the immortal Wallace ; 
and two hours ago I said a fervent prayer, 
for Old Caledonia, over the hole in \ blue whin- 
stone, where Robert de Bruce fixed his royal 
standard on the banks of Bannockburn ; and just 
now, from Stirling Cnstle. I have seen by the 
setting sun the glorious prospect of the wiud:iog» 
of Forth through the rich carse of Stirling, and 
skirting the equally rich carse of Falkirk. The 
crops are very strong, but so very late, that 
there is no harvest, except a ridge or two per- 
haps in ten miles, all the way I have travelh'<^ 
from Edinburgh. 

I left Andrew Bruce md family all well. 1 
will be at least three weeks in making my toui, 
as I shall return by the coast, and have manv 
I people to call for. 



858 



aENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



My best compliments to Charles, our dear 
kinsman and fellow-saint: and Messrs. W. and 
H. Parkers. I hope Huglioc is going on and 
prospering with God and Miss M'Causlin. 

If I could think on anything sprightly, I should 
let you hear every other post ; but a dull, mat- 
tei-of-fact business, like this scrawl, the less 
and seldomer one writes, the better. 

Among other matters-of-fact I shall add this, 
that I am and ever shall be. 
My dear Sir, 

Your obliged, 

R. B. 



LXXVII. 
TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

[It is supposed that the warmth of the lovei- came in 
this letter to the aid of the imagination of the poet, in his 
iccount of Charlotte Hamilton.] 

Stirling, 2Sth August, 1787. 
My dear Sir, 
Here am I on my way to Inverness. I have 
rambled over the rich, fertile carses of Falkirk 
and Sterling, and am delighted with their ap- 
pearance: richly waving crops of wheat, barley, 
&c., but no harvest at all yet, except, in one or 
two places, an old wife's ridge. Yesterday 
morning I rode from this town up the meander- 
ing Devon's banks, to pay my respects to some 
Ayrshire folks at Harvieston. After breakfast, 
;9^e made a party to go and see the famous Cau- 
dron-linn, a remarkable cascade in the Devon, 
about five miles above Harvieston ; and after 
spending one of the most pleasant days I ever 
had in my life, I returned to Stirling in the 
evening. They are a family, Sir, though I had 
not had any prior tie ; though they had not 
been the brother and sisters of a certain gene- 
rous friend of mine, I would never forget them. 
I am told you have not seen them these several 
years, so you can have very little idea of what 
thebo young folks are now. Your brother is as 
^all as you are, but slender rather than other- 
wise , and I have the satisfaction to inform you 
*hat ho is getting the better of those consump- 
dve symptoms which I suppose you know were 
threatening him. His make, and particularly 
his manner, resemble you, but he will still have 
ft finer face. (I put in the word still to please 
Mrs. Hamilton.) Good sense, modesty, and at 
rhe sr.me time a just idea of that respect that 



man owes to man, and has a right in Ms turn 
to exact, are striking features in his charac 
ter ; and, what with me is the Alpha and ihi 
Omega, he has a heart that might adorn the 
breast of a poet ! Grace has a good figure, and 
the look of health and cheerfulness^ but no- 
thing else remarkable in her person, i scarcely 
ever saw so striking a likeness as is betwcei. 
her and your little Beenie ; the mouth and thin 
particularly. She is reserved at first ; but aa 
we grew better acquainted, I was delighted with 
the native frankness of her manner, and the 
sterling sense of her observation. Of Charlotte 
I cannot speak in common terms of admiration: 
she is not only beautiful but lovely. Her form 
is elegant; her features not regular, but they 
have the smile of sweetness and the settled 
complacency of good nature in the highest 
degree ; and her complexion, now that she haa 
happily recovered her wonted health, is equal 
to Miss Burnet's. After the exercise of our 
riding to the Falls, Charlotte was exactly Dr. 
Donne's mistress: — 

" Her pure and eloquent blood 



Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, 
That one would almost say her body thought." 

Her eyes are fascinating ; at once expressi re 
of good sense, tenderness, and a noble mind. 

I do not give you all this account, my good 
Sir, to flatter you. I mean it to reproach you. 
Such relations the first peer in the realm might 
own with pride ; then why do you not keep up 
more correspondence with these so amiable 
young folks ? I had a thousand questions to 
answer about you. I had to describe the little 
ones with the minuteness of anatomy. They 
were highly delighted when I told them that 
John was so good a boy, and so fine a scholar, 
and that Willie was going on still very pretty; 
but I have it in commission to tell her from 
them that beauty is a poor silly bauble withrut 
she be good. Miss Chalmers I had Icit in 
Edinburgh, but I had the pleasure of meetiag 
Mrs. Chalmers, only Lady Mackenzie being 
rather a little alarmingly ill of a sore throat 
somewhat marred our enjoyment. 

I shall not be in Ayrshire for four weeks. 
My most respectful compliments to Mrs. Ham* 
ilton, Miss Kennedy, and Doctoi" Mackenzie. 
I shall probably write him from some stage OT 

other. 

I am ever, Sir, 

Yours most gratefully, 

B. B 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



35^ 



LXXVIII. 
TO MR. WALKER, 

BLAIR OF ATHOLE. 

)«Tof08Sf'r WaUcer was a native of Ayrshire, and an 
iseomplishod scholar; he saw Burns often in Edinburgh ; 
he enw hix at the Earl of Athol'son theBruar; he visited 
bin .00 1 Dumfries; and after tne copyright of Currie's 
»iit 0"" ■> ^.e poet's works expired, he wrote, with much 
IA<*» Afr" !»^l'.ng, his life anew, and edited his works — 
wha. pastied uider his own observation he related with 
ntL ac ' «ase.} 

Inverness, 5th September, 1787. 
Mt dear Sir, 

I hate just time to write th^ foregoing,' and 
to tell you that it was (at least most part of it) 
the effusion of an half-hour I spent at Bruar. 
I do not mean it was extempore, for I have 
endeavoured to brush it up as well as Mr. 
NicoFs chat and the jogging of the chaise would 
allow. It eases my heart a good deal, as 
rhyme is th(» coin with which a poet pays his 
debts of honour or gratitude. What I owe to 
the noble family of Athol, of the firait kind, 
1 shall ever proudly boast ; what I owe of the 
last, so help me God in my hour of need ! I 
shall never forget. 

The "little angel-band !" I declare I prayed 
for them very sincerely to-day at the Fall of 
Fyers. I shall never forget the fine family- 
piece I saw at Blair ; the amiable, the truly 
noble duchess, with her smiling little seraph in 
her lap, at the head of the table ; the lovely 
"olive plants," as the Hebrew bard "finely says> 
round the happy mother : the beautiful Mrs. 
G — ; the lovely sweet Miss C, &c. I wish I 
h.-id the powers of Guido to do them justice ! 
My Lord Duke's kind hospitality — markedly 
ki^d indeed. Mr. Graham of Fintray's charms 
of conversation — Sir W. Murray's friendship. 
In short, the recollection of all that polite, 
isii/reenblg company raises an honest glow in my 
bosom. 



LXXIX. 
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

\T\'« lotters of Robert to Gilbert are neither many nor 
cnportant: t/i6 hitter was a calm, considerate, sensible 
tian, with nothing poetic in his composition : he died 
tt*ly; muOii ata wilejy respected.] 



Edinburgh, 17 ih September, 1787 
My bear Brother, 
I ARRIVED here safe yesterday evening, aftei 
a tour of twenty-two days, and travelling neaJ 
six hundred miles, vandings included. My 
farthest stretch was abotit ten miles beyond 
Inverness. I went through the heart of tL« 
Highlands by Crieff, Taymouth, the famous seal 
of Lord Breadalbane, down the Taj^ among 
cascades and druidical circles of stones, to 
Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of Athol , thence 
across the Tay, and up one of his tributary 
streams to Blair of Athole, another of the 
duke's seats, where I had the honour of spend- 
ing nearly two days with his grace and family ; 
thence many miles through a wild country, 
among cliffs gray with eternal snows and gloomy 
savage glens, till I crossed Spey and went down 
the stream through Strathspey, so famous in 
Scottish music ; Badenoch, &c., till I reached 
Grant Castle, where I spent half a day with 
Sir James Grant and family ; and then crossed 
the country for Fort George, but called by the 
j way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeth , 
there I saw the identical bed, in which tradition 
says king Duncan was murdered : lastly, fronj 
Fort George to Inverness. 

I returned by the coast, through Nairn, F jrres, 
and so on, to Aberdeen, thence to Stonehive, 
where James Burness, from Montrose, met me 
by appointment. I spent two days among our 
relations, and found our aunts, Jean and Isabel, 
still alive, and hale old women. John Cairn, 
though born the same year with our father, 
walks as vigorously as I can : they have had 
several letters from his son in New York. Wil- 
liam Brand is likewise a stout old fellow ; but 
further particulars I delay till I see you, which 
will be in two or three weeks. The rest of my 
stages are not worth rehearsing • warm as I 
was from Ossian's country, where I had «een 
his very grave, what cared I for fishing-towue 
or fertile carses ? I slept at the famous Brodh 
of Brodie's one night, and dined at Gordon ('as- 
tie next day, with the duke, Jucness and faoai' 
ly. I am thinking to cause my old mare to raeel 
me, by means of John Ronald, at Glasgow ; but 
you shall hear farther from me before ] leave 
Edinburgh. My duty and many complimentjj 
from the north to my mother ; and my brotherly 
' compliments to the rest. I have been trying fof 
\ a berth for William, but am not likely to be sue 
cessful. Farewell. R. B 



I The Humble Petition of Bruar-water 



660 



GENERAL CORliESPONDENCE 



LXXX. 
rC .flloS MARGARET CHALMERS. 

(now MRS. HAY.) 

[To Margaret Chalmars. the youngest daughter of 
/"ames CLalmers, Esq., of Fingland, it is said that Burns 
eonf.dad his affection to Charlotte Hamilton : his letters 
k> Miss Chalmers, like those to Mrs. Dunlop, are dis- 
JxLguishfid for their good sense and delicacy as well as 
fr* adorn 

Sept. 26, 1787. 

I g^JND Charlotte the first number of the 
Bongs ; I would not wait for the second number ; 

fiate delays in little marks of friendship, as I 
nate dissimulation in the language of the heart. 
I am determined to pay Charlotte a poetic com- 
pliment, if I could hit on some glorious old 
Scotch air, in number second.^ You will see a 
small attempt on a shred of paper in the book : 
but though Dr. Blacklock commended it very 
highly, I am not just satisfied with it myself. I 
intend to make it a description of some kind : 
the whining cant of love, except in real pas- 
sion, and by a masterly hand, is to me as insuf- 
ferable as the preaching cant of old Father 
Smeaton, whig-minister at Kilmaurs. Darts, 
fiames, cupids, loves, graces, and all that far- 
rago, are just a Mauchline * * * * a senseless 
rabble. 

I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight 
from the old, venerable author of " Tullochgo- 
rum," '' John of Badenyon," &c. I suppose you 
know he is a clergyman. It is by far the finest 
poetic compliment I ever got. I will send you 
a cop) of it. 

I go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries, to 
wait on Mr. Miller about his farms. — Do tell 
that to Lady Mackenzie, that she may give me 
r-redit for a little wisdom. "I Wisdom dwell 
vfith Prudence." What a blessed fire-side! 
How happy should I be to pass a winter evening 
under their venerable roof! and smoke a pipe 
rf tobacco, or drink water-gruel with them! 
Wnat solemn, lengthened, laughter-quashing 
gravity of phiz ! What sage remarks on the 
j5ood-for-nothing sons and daughters of indis- 
cretion and folly ! And what frugal lessons, as 
we straitened the fire-side circle, on the uses of 
the poker and tongs ! 

Miss N. is very well, and begs to be remem- 
bered iu the old way to you. I used all my elo- 
\ucnce, all the persuasive flourishes of the 

' Of tne Scots Musical Museum 



hand, and heart-melting modulation of periods 
in my power, to urge her out to Harvieston, bu* 
all in vain. My rhetoric seems quite to have lost 
its effect on the lovely half of mankind. I hav« 
seen the day — butthat is a " tale of other years/ 
— In my conscience I believe that my heart ha* 
been so oft on fire that it is absolutely vitrified 
I look on the sex with something like the a iiyx 
ration with which I regard the starry sky in a 
frosty December night. I adn.ire the beauty 
of the Creator's workmanship ; I am charmed 
with the wild but graceful eccentricity of theii 
motions, and — wish them good night. I mean 
this with respect to a certain passion dont fai 
eu Vhonneur d'etre un miserable esclave ; as for 
friendshipj you and Charlotte have given nie 
pleasure, permanent pleasure, " which the world 
cannot give, nor take away," I hope ; and whicb 
will outlast the heavens and the earth 

R. B 



LXXXI. 

TO MISS MARGARET CHALMERS. 

[Thathne song, " The Banks of the Devon," dedicated 
to the charms of Charlotte Hamilton, was enclosed in th« 
following letter 

Without date. 

I HAA^E been at Dumfries, and at one visit more 
shall be decided about a farm in that country. 
I am rather hopeless in it ; but as my brother 
is an excellent farmer, and is, besides, an ex- 
ceedingly prudent, sober man (qualities which 
are only a younger brother's fortune in our 
family), I am determined, if my Dumfries bu- 
siness fail me, to return into partnership with 
him, and at our leisure take another farm in the 
neighbourhood. 

I assure you I look for high compliments fr^rn 
you and Charlotte on this very sage instance of 
my unfathomable, incomprehensible wisdom. 
Talking of Charlotte, I must tell her that I have, 
ta the best of my power, paid her a poetic com- 
pliment, now completed. The air is admiiable : 
true old Highland. It was the tune of a Gaelic 
song, which an Inverness lady sung me when I 
was there ; and I was so charmed with it that 1 
begged her to write me a set of it from her sing- 
ing ; for it had never been set before. I am 
fixed that it shall go in Johnson's next number ; 
so Charlotte and you need not spend your pre- 
cious time in contradicting me. I won't say tha 
poetry is first-rate ; though I am convinced it it 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



361 



rerj tvell ; and, what is not always the case with 
tompliments to ladies, it is not only sincere, 
Hut just. B B. 



LXXXII. 
TO JAMES HOY, ESQ. 

GORDON CASTLE. 

IJames Hoy, librarian of Gordon Castle, was, it ie 
•.'Jd, the gentleman whom his grace of Gordon sent with 
a iressage inviting in vain that " obstinate son of Latin 
prose," Nicol, to stop and enjoy himself.] 



§m, 



Edinburgh, 20th October, 1787. 



I WILL defend my conduct in giving you this 
trouble, on the best of Christian principles — 
*♦ Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto 
you, do ye even so unto them." — I shall cer- 
tainly, among my legacies, leave my latest curse 
lo that unlucky predicament which hurried — 
tore me away from Castle Gordon. May that 
obstinate son of Latin prose [Nicol] be curst to 
Scotch mile periods, and damned to seven league 
paragraphs; while Declension and Conjugation, 
Gender, Number, and Time, under the ragged 
banners of Dissonance and Disarrangement, eter- 
nally rank against him in hostile array. 

Allow me, Sir, to strengthen the small claim I 
have to your acquaintance, by the following re- 
quest. An engraver, James Johnson, in Edin- 
burgh, has, not from mercenary views, but from 
an honest, Scotch enthusiasm, set about collect- 
ing all our native songs and setting them to 
music; particularly those that have never been 
Bet before. Clarke, the well known musician, 
presides over the musical arrangement, and Drs. 
Beattie and Blacklock, Mr. Tytler, of Wood- 
houselee, and your humble servant to the utmost 
of hifl ^mall power, assist in collecting the old 
jToetry, or sumetimes for a fine air make a stanza, 
••hen it has no words. The brats, too tedious 
lo -lention, claim a parental pang from my bard- 
lli'p. I suj ; Tse it will appear in Johnson's se- 
K'nd nx CD he: - the first was published before my 
icquainance with him. My request is — " Caiild 
Kail in Aberdeen," is one intended for this 
number, and I beg a copy of his Grace of Gor- 
don's words to it, which you were so kind as to 
repeat to me. You may be sure we won't pre- 
fix the author's name, except you like, though I 
look on it as no small merit to this work that the 
names of many of the authors of our old Scotch 
^ngs, names almosi* forgotten, will be inserted. 



I do not well know where to write to you — 1 
rather write at you ; but if you will be so oblig- 
ing, immediately on receipt of this, as to writ€ 
me a few lines, I shall perhaps pay j'^ou io kind, 
though not in quality. Johnson's terms are : — ■ 
each number a handsome pocket volume, to con- 
sist at least of a hundred Scotch songs, with 
basses for the harpsichord, &c. The price tc 
subscribers 5s. ; to non-subscribers 6s. He will 
have three numbers I conjecture. 

My direction for two or three weeks will be at 
Mr. William Cruikshank's, St. James's-square, 
New-town, Edinburgh. 

I am. 

Sir, 
Your's to command, 

R. B. 



LXXXIII. 



TO REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

[The songs of " TuUochgorum," and " John of Baden- 
yon,'' have made the name of fekinner dear to all loverj 
of Scottish verse : he was a man cheerful and pious, nor 
did the family talent expire with him: his son becama 
Bishop of Aberdeen.] 

Edinburgh, October 25, 1787. 
Reverend and Venerable Sir, 

Accept, in plain dull prose, my most sincere 
thanks for the best poetical compliment I ever 
received. I assure you. Sir, as a poet, you 
have conjured up an airy demon of vanity in 
my fancy, which the best abilities in your other 
capacity would be ill able to lay. I regret, and 
while I live I shall regret, that when I was in 
the north, I had not the pleasure of paying a 
younger brother's dutiful respect to the author 
of the best Scotch song ever Scotland saw— 
<< Tullochgorum's my delight!" The world mav 
think slightingly of the craft of song-making, 
if they please, but, as Job says — " Oh ! that 
mine adversary had written a book !" — let them 
try. There is a certain something in the old 
Scotch songs, a wild happiness of thought and ex- 
pression, which peculiarly marks them, not only 
from English songs, but also from the modern 
efforts of song- Wrights in our native manner and 
language.' The only remains of this enchantment 
these spells of the imagination, rests with you. 
Our true brothei Ross of Lochlee, was like- 
wise " owre cannie" — a "wild warlock"- 
but now he sings among the " sons of the morn- 
ing." 

1 have often wished, and will certainly endefc 



B62 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



/our to form a kind of common acquaintance 
among all tho genuine sons of Caledonian song. 
The world, busy in low prosaic pursuits, may 
overlook most of us; but "reverence thyself." 
The world is not our peers, so we challenge the 
jury. We can lash that world, and find our- 
selves a very great source of amusement and 
happiness independent of that world. 

There is a work going on in Edinburgh, just 
now, which claims your best assistance. An 
engraver In this town has set about collecting 
and publishing all the Scotch songs, with the 
music, that can be found. Songs in the English 
languafj-e, if by Scotchmen, are admitted, but 
the mu»if must all be Scotch. Drs. Beattie and 
Blacklo'Jr are lending a hand, and the first mu- 
Bician .n town presides over that department. 
I ha' i jeen absolutely crazed about it, collect- 
ing o'i stanzas, and every information respect- 
in ; „heir origin, authors, &c. &c. This last is 
bv , a very fragment business ; but at the end of 
hiS second number — the first is already published 
— a small account will be given of the authors, 
particularly to preserve those of latter times. 
Your three songs, " Tullochgorum," "John of 
Badenyon," and " Ewie wi' the crookit horn," 
i!0 in this second number. I was determined, 
before I got your letter, to write you, begging 
that you would let me know where the editions 
of these pieces may be found, as you would wish 
them to continue in future times ; and if you 
would be so kind to this undertaking as send 
any songs, of your own or others, that you would 
think proper to publish, your name will be in- 
serted among the other authoT-s, — "Nill ye, will 
ye," One half of Scotland already give your 
%>ngs to other authors. Paper is done. I beg 
to bear from you ; the sooner the better, as I 
lea-ve Edinburgh in a fortnight or three weeks. — 
\ am, 

With the warmest sincerity, Sir, 

Your ol)liged humble servant, — E,. B. 



LXXXIV. 
TO JAMES HOT, ESQ. 

A.T GORDON CASTLE, FOCHABERS. 

fill sinsrleness of heart and simplicity of manners James 
iloy 18 said, by one win kn'N»' him well, to have ri /ailed 
Uomime Sampson : his love of learning and nis scorn of 
vaa.th ^re stjll remeia^ered to his honour] 



Edinburgh^ 6i!^ NovtmU,rj 1787 
Dear Sir, 

I WOULD have wrote you immediately on re- 
ceipt of your kind letter, c ut a mixed impuls* 
of gratitude and esteem t hispered me that ] 
ought to send you something by way ol return 
When a poet owes anything, particularly v hen 
he is indebted for good offices, the payment thA** 
usually recurs to him — the only coin indeed m 
which he probably is conversant — is rhyme. 
Johnson sends the books by the fly, as directed, 
and begs me to enclose his most grateful thanks: 
my return I intended should have been one or 
two poetic bagatelles which the world have not 
seen, or, perhaps, for obvious reasons, cannot 
see. These I shall send you before I leave 
Edinburgh, They may make you laugh a little, 
which, on the whole, is no bad way of spending 
one's precious hoars and still more precious 
breath : at any rate, they wxll be, though a 
small, yet a very sincere mark of my respectful 
esteem for a gentleman whose further aoijuainb 
ance I should look upon as a peculiar obliga- 
tion. 

The duke's song, independent totally of his 
dukeship, charms me. There is I know not 
what of wild happiness of thought and expres- 
sion peculiarly beautiful in the old Scottish song 
style, of which his Grace, old venerable Skinner, 
the author of " Tullochgorum," &c., and the late 
Ross, at Lochlee, of true Scottish poetic memory, 
are the only modern instances that I recollect, 
since Ramsay with his contemporaries, and poor 
Br Fergusson, went to the world of deathless 
existence and truly immortal song. The mob 
of mankind, that many-headed beast, woul,1 
laugh at so serious a speech about an old song, 
but as Job says, "0 that mine adversary had 
written a book !" Those who think that com- 
posing a Scotch song is a trifling business — let 
them try, 

I wish my Lord Duke would pay a proper Jtt 

tention to the Christian admonition — "Hide not 

your candle under a bushel," but "let yoTir 

light shine before men." I could name half a 

dozen dukes that I guess are a devilish deal 

worse employed: nay, I question if there are 

half a dozen better : perhaps there are not hall 

that scanty number whom Heaven has favoured 

with t ae tuneful, happy, and, I will say, glorioul 

gift. 

I f.m, dear Sir, 

Your obliged humble servant, 

R. B. 



LXX XV. 

TC MR. ROBERT AINSLIE, 

H'^TNBURGH. 

J ' I 8*t you down," says Burns, e'sewhere, to Ainslie, 
"i t ^Jie afaffof my old a^e, \vhen aj\ my other friends, 
»flei a deceE' show of pity, will iave Airgot me."] 

Edinburgh, Sunday Morning, 
Nov, 20, 1717. 

I nEQ, my dear Sir, you would not make any 
appointment to take us to Mr. Ainslie's *o-night. 
On looking over my engagements, constitution, 
present state of my health, some little vexitious 
Boul concerns, &c., I find I can't sup abroat.\ to- 
night. I shall be in to-day till one o'clock if 
you have a leisure hour. 

You will think it romantic when I tell you, 
that T find the idea of your friendship almost 
necessary to my existence. — You assume a pro- 
per length of face in my bitter hours of blue- 
devilism, and you laugh fully up to my highest 
wishes at my good things. — I don't know upon 
the whole, if you are one of the first fellows in 
God's world, but you are so to me. I tell you 
this just now in the conviction that some in- 
equalities in my temper and manner may per- 
haps sometimes make you suspect that I am not 
BO warmly as I ought to be your friend. 

R. B. 



LXXXVI. 



sisters from destruction. There, my lord, yo« 
have bound me over to the highest gratitude. 

My brother's farm is but a wretched lease, 
but I think he will probably weather out the re- 
maining seven years of it ; and after the assist' 
ance which I have given and will give him, td 
keep the family together/ 1 think, by my guess, 
I shall have rather better than two hundred 
pounds, and instead of seeking, \that is almost 
impossible at present to find, a farm that I can 
certainly live by, with so small a stock, I shall 
lodge this sum in a banking-house, a sacred de- 
posit, expecting only the calls of uncommon 
distress or necessitous old age. 

These, my lord, are my views: I have resolved 
from the maturest deliberation ; and now I am 
fixed, I shall leave no stone unturned to carry 
I my resolve into execution. Your lordship's pa- 
tronage is the strength of my hopes ; nor have 
I yet applied to anybody else. Indeed my 
heavt sinks within me at the idea of applying 
to ary other of the great who have honoured 
me with their countenance, I am ill qualified 
to dog the heels of greatness with the imperti- 
nence of solicitation, and tremble nearly as 
much at the thought of the cold promise aa 
the cold denial ; but to your lordship I have 
not only the Lonour, the comfort, but the plea- 
sure of being 

Your loriship's much obliged 

And deeply indebted humble servant, 
R. B 



TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

[The views of Burns were always humble : he regarded 
a place in the excise as a thing worthy of paying court 
for) both in verse and prose.] 

Edinburgh, 1787. 
My Lord, 

f KNOW your lordship will disapprove of my 
Ideas in a request I am going to make to you ; 
but I have weighed, long and seriously weighed, 
my situation, my hopes and turn of mind, and 
ha fully fixed to my scheme if I can possibly 
etfectua*,e it I wish to get into the Excise ; I 
am tol'i that your lordship's interest will easily 
procure me the grant from the commissioners; 
and your lordship's patronage ;ind goodness, 
which have already rescued me from obscurity. 
Wretchedness, and exile, embolden me to ask 
that interest. You have likewise put it in my 
power to save the little tie of home that shel- 
tered an aged muther, two brothers, and three 



LXXXVII. 
TO JAMES DALRYMPLE, ESQ 

ORANGEFIELD. 

[James Dalrymple, Esq., of Orangefield, was a gent^a 
man of birth and poetic tastes — he interefted himself n 
the fortunes of Burns.] 

Edinburgh, 1787. 
Dear Sir, 

I SUPPOSE the devil is so elated with his sua- 
cess with you that he is determined by a cottp 
de main to complete his purposes on you all at 
once, in making you a poet. I broke open tlm 
letter you sent me ; hummed over the rhymes 
and, as I saw they were extempore, said to my- 
self, they were very well ; but when I saw at 
the bottom a name that I shall ever value witfc 
grateful respect, "I gai^it wid( , but naething 
spak." 1 was nearly as much struck as th« 



5t>4 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



friends of Job, of affliction-bearing memory, 
when they sat down with him seven days and 
seven nights, and spake not a word. 

I am naturally of a supeistitious cast, and 
as soon as my wonder-scared imagination re- 
gained its consciousness, and resumed its func- 
tions, T cast about wh\it this mania of yours 
might portend. My foreboding ideas had the 
<Pfide stretch of possibility ; and several events, 
great in their magnitude, and important in their 
consequences, occurred to my fancy. The 
downfall of the conclave, or the crushing of the 
Cork rumps; a ducal coronet to Lord George 
Gordon and the Protestant interest; or St. 
Peter's keys to ***** *. 

You want to know how I come on. I am just 
in statu quo, or, not to insult a gentleman with my 
Latin, in " auld use and wont." The noble 
Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand to-day, 
and interested himself in my concerns, with a 
goodness like that benevolent Being, whose 
image he so richly bears. He is a strenger 
proof of the immortality of the soul, than any 
that philosophy ever produced. A mind like 
his can never die. Let the worshipful squire 
H. L., or the reverend Mass J. M. go into their 
primitive nothing. At best, they are but ill- 
digested lumps of chaos, only one of them 
Btrongly tinged with bituminous particles and 
Bulphureous effluvia. But my noble patron, 
eternal as the heroic swell of magnanimity, and 
the generous throb of benevolence, shall look 
on with princely eye at "the war of elements, 
the wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds." 

R. B. 



LXXXVIII. 
rO CHARLES HAY, ESQ., 

ADVOCATE. 

rho T^/erses enclosed were written on the death of the 
u^jiC President Dundas, at the suggestion of Charles Hay, 
Ej«q., advo-'ate, afterwards a judge, under the title of 
Lord Newton J 

SiR, 
The enclosed poem was written in consequence 
of your suggestion, last time I had the pleasure 
,»f seeing you. It cost me an hour or two of 
oext morning's sleep, but did not please me ; so 
It lay by, an ill-digested effort, till the other 
■iay that I gave it a critic brush. These kind 
< sabjects are much hackneyed; and, besides, 



the wailings of the rhyming tribe over the ashei 
of the great are cursedly suspicious, and out of 
all character for sincerity. These ideas damped 
my muse's fire ; however, I have done the besi 
T could, and, at all events, it gives me au oppor- 
tunity of declaring that I have the hono'ir to 
be, Sir, your obliged humble servant, 



LXXXIX. 
TO MISS M- 



-N. 



[This letter appeared for the first time in the " Letter! 
to Clarinda," a little work which was speedily sup- 
pressed — it is, on the whole, a sort of Corydon and Phil- 
lis affair, with here and there expressions too graphic, and 
passages over- warm. Who the lady was is not known — 
or known only to one.] 

Saturday Noon, No. 2, St. James's SguarCy 
New Town, Edinburgh. 

Here have I sat, my dear Madam, in the 
stony altitude of perplexed study for fifteen vex- 
atious minutes, my head askew, bending over 
the intended card ; my fixed eye insensible to 
the very light of day poured around ; my pendu- 
lous goose-feather, loaded with ink, hanging 
over the future letter, all for the important pur- 
pose of writing a complimentary card to accom- 
pany your trinket. 

Compliment is such a miserable Greenland ex 
pression, lies at such a chilly polar distance 
from the torrid zone of my constitution, that I 
cannot, for the very soul of me, use it to any 
person for whom I have the twentieth part of 
the esteem every one must have for you wh» 
knows you. 

As I leave town in three or four days, I can 
give myself the pleasure of calling on you only 
for a minute. Tuesday evening, some time 
about seven or after, I shall wait on you for 
your farewell commands. 

The hinge of your box I put into the hands 
of the proper connoisseur. The broken glass, 
likewise, went under review; but deliberative 
wisdom thought it would too much endanger th« 
whole fabric. 

I am, dear Madam, 

With all sincerity of enthusiasm, 

Your very obedient servant, 

R. B 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



86?J ! 



xc. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

[Some dozeo or so, it 's said, of the most beautiful 
etters ih-it Bu-ns ever wi )te, and dedicated to the beauty 
»f CharJtte Hamilton, were destroyed by that lady, in a 
mumeiit when ang-er was too strong for reflection ] 

Edinburgh, Nov. 21, 1787. 

1 HAVE one vexatious fault to the kindly-wel- 
Bome, well-filled sheet which I owe to your and 
Charlotte's goodness, — it contains too much 
sense, sentiment, and good-spelling. It is im- 
possible that even you two, whom I declare to 
my God I will give credit for any degree of ex- 
cellence the sex are capable of attaining, it is 
Impossible you can go on to correspond at that 
rate ; so like those who, Shenstone says, retire 
because they make a good speech, I shall, after 
a few letters, hear no more of you. I insist 
th it you shall write whatever comes first: what 
you see, what you read, what you hear, what 
you admire, what you dislike, trifles, bagatelles, 
nonsense ; or to fill up a corner, e'en put down 
a laugh at full length. Now none of your polite 
hints about flattery ; I leave that to your lovers, 
if you have or shall have any ; though, thank 
heaven, I have found at last two girls who can 
be luxm-iantly happy in their own minds and 
with one another, without that commonly neces- 
sary appendage to female bliss — a lover. 

Charlotte and you are just two favourite rest- 
ing-places for my soul in her wanderings through 
the weary, thorny wilderness of this world. 
Cxod knows I am ill-fitted for the struggle : I 
glory in being a Poet, and I want to be thought 

wise man — I would fondly be generous, and 
i wish to be rich. After all, I am afraid I am 
a lost subject. " Some folk hae a hantle o' 
fauts, an' I'm but a ne'er-do-weel." 

Afternoon — To close the melancholy reflec- 
tions at the end of last sheet, I shall just add 
% piece of devotion commonly known in Can-.ck 
Ity the title of the " Wabster's grace:" — 

" Some Bay we're thieves, and e'en sae are we, 
Sfjme say we lie, and e'en sae do we ! 
Gude forgie us, and I hope sae wil* he ! 

Up and to your looms, lads." 

R. B. 



XCI. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

fThe " Oc..3l-Hill8," which the poet promises in this 
•twr, if a song, beginning, 



" Where braving angry winter's storms 
The lofty Of.hels rise," 
written in honour of Myrgaret Chalmers, and publishes 
along with the '^ Banks of the Devon," in Johnson's Mu 
sical Museum 

Edinburgh, Dec. 12, 1787. 

I AM here under the care of a surgeon, with 
a bruised limb extended on a cushion : and tk» 
tints of my mind vying with the livid horroj 
preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drunk- 
en coachman was the cause of the first, and 
incomparably the lightest evil ; misfortune, bo- 
dily constitution, hell, and myself have formed 
a " quadruple alliance" to guaranty the other. 
I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting 
slowly better. 

I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and 
am got through the five books of Moses, and 
half way in Joshua. It is really a glorioua 
book. I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and 
ordered him to get me an octavo Bible in sheets, 
the best paper and print in town ; and bind it 
with all the elegance of his craft. . 

I would give my best song to my worst enemy, 
I mean the merit of making it, to have you and 
Charlotte by me. You are angelic creatures, 
and would pour oil and wine into my wounded 
spirit. 

I enclose you a proof copy of the " Banks of 
the Devon," which present with my best wishes 
to Charlotte. The " Ochel-hills" you shall pro- 
bably have next week for yourself. None of 
your fine speeches : R. B. 



XCII. 
TO MISS CHALMERS. 

[The eloquent hypochondriasm of the concluding r«iu- 
graph of this letter, called forth the commendation of 
Lord Jeffrey, when he criticised Cromek'e R<».iqv.eB of 
Burns, in the Edinburgh Review.] 

Edinburgh, Dec. 19, 1"87. 
I BEGIN this letter in answer to yours of ihe 
17th current, which is not yet cold since I road 
it. The atmosphere of my soul is vastly -Jtarei 
than when I wrote you last. For ae first time, 
yesterday I crossed the room on crutches. It 
would do your heart good to see my hardship, 
not on my poetic, but on my os>en stilts; 
throwing my best leg with an air ! azd with as 
much hilarity in my gait and countenaacc, as a 
May frog leaping across the newly harrowefll 



ridge, enjoying the fragrance of the refreshed 
earthj after the long-expected shower! 

I can't say i am altogether at my ease when 
Isee anywhere in my path that meagre, squalid, 
famine-faced spectre, Poverty ; attended as he 
always is, by iron-fisted oppression, and leering 
contempt; but I have sturdily withstood his 
tufffjtings many a hard-laboured day already, 
%ii<l still my motto is — I dare ! My worst enemy 
«s moi-r.-ieme. I lie so miserably open to the in- 
rcads and incursions of 9. mischievous, light- 
armed, well-mounted banditti, under the ban- 
Qers of imagination, whim, caprice, and passion: 
and the heavy-arm.ed veteran regulars of wis- 
dom, prudence, and forethought move so very, 
very slow, that I am almost in a state of per- 
petual warfare, and, alas ! frequent defeat. 
There are just two creatures I would envy, a 
horse in his wild state traversing the forests of 
Asia, or an oyster on some of the desert shores 
of Europe. The one has not a wish without en- 
joyment, the other has neither wish nor fear. 

R. B. 



XCIII. 
TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

[The Whitefoords of Whitefoord, inlereated them- 
selves in all matters connected with literature • the power 
.if the family, unluckily for Burns, was not equal to their 

taste.] 



SlI^, 



Edinburgh, December, 1787. 



Mr. Mackenzie, in Mauchline, my very warm 
and worthy friend, has informed me how much 
you are pleased to interest yourself in my fate 
as a man, and (what to me is incomparably 
flearer) my fame as a poet. I have, Sir, in one 
or two instances, been patronized by those of 
your character in life, when I was introduced to 
their notice by ***** friends to them, and ho- 
noured acquaintances to me ! but you are the 
firs., gentleman in the country whose benevo- 
fnue and goodness of heart has interested him- 
self for me unsolicited and unknown. I am 
Dot master enough of the etiquette of these mat- 
ter;- to know, nor did I stay to inquire, whe- 
ther formal duty bade, or cold propriety disal- 
lowed, my thanking you in this manner, as I 
am convinced, from the light in which you 
Kindly view me, that you will do me the jus- 
tice tc believe tLis letter is not the manoeuvre 
if the needy, sharping author, fastening on 



those in upper life, who honour him with 9 
little notice of him or his works. Indeed, th« 
situation of poets is generally such, to a pro- 
verb, as may, in some measure, palliate that 
prostitution of heart and talents, thej- have at 
times been guilty of. I do not think prodigality 
is, by any means, a necessary concomitant 0/ 
a poetic turn, but I believe a careless indolent 
attention to economy, is almost inseparable 
from it ; then there" must be in the heart ol 
every bard of Nature's making, a certain mo- 
dest sensibility, mixed with a kind of pride, 
that will ever keep him out of the waj' of those 
windfalls of fortune which frequently light on 
hardy impudence and foot-licking servility. It 
is not easy to imagine a more helpless state than 
his whose poetic fancy unfit* him for the world, 
and whose character as a scholar gives him some 
pretensions to ihQ politesse o^ life — yet is as poor 
as I am. 

For my part, I thank Heaven my star hag 
been kinder ; learning never elevated my ideaa 
above the peasant's shed, and I have an inde- 
pendent fortune at the plough-tail. 

I was surprised to hear that any one who pre 
tended in the least to the manners of the gentle- 
man, should be so foolish, or worse, as to stoop 
to traduce the morals of such a one as I am, 
and so inhumanly cruel, too, as to meddle with 
that late most unfortunate, unhappy part of my 
story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank you, 
Sir, for the warmth with which you interposed 
in behalf of my conduct. I am, I acknowledge, 
too frequently the sport of whim, caprice, and 
passion, but reverence to God, and integrity to 
my fellow-creatures, I hope I shall ever pre- 
serve. I have no return. Sir, to make you for 
your goodness but one — a return which, I am 
persuaded, will not be unacceptable — the honest, 
warm wishes of a grateful heart for your hap- 
piness, and every one of that lovely flock, who 
stand to you in a filial relation. If ever ca- 
lumny aim the poisoned shaft at them, may 
friendship be by to ward the blow ! 

R. B 



XCIV. 
TO MISS WILLIAMS, 

ON READING HER POEM OF THE SLAVE-TRADE. 

[The name and merits of Miss Williams are widely 
known; nor is it a small honour t^ "ler muse that ii8T 
tender song of •' Evan Barks" was imputed to Itariu bj 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



86'' 



CroRjek: other editors sii ee hs ve continued to include 
1 his works, though Si: Walter Scott named the true 
tathor.J 

Edinburgh, Dec. 1787. 

I KNOW very little of scientific criticism, so 
all I can pretend to in that intricate art is 
mcrelr to note, as I read along, what passages 
ntxike me as being uncommonly beautiful, and 
where th£ expression seems to be perplexed or 
fiulty. 

The poem opens finely. There are none of 
fliese idle prefatory lines which one may skip 
over before one comes to the subject. Verses 
9th and 10th in particular, 

' Where ocean's unseen bound 
Lea\;es a drear world of waters round," 

are truly beautiful. The simile of the hurri- 
cane is likewise fne; and, indeed, beautiful as 
the poem is, almost all the similes rise decidedly 
above it. From verse 31st to verse 50th is a 
pretty eulogy on Britain. Verse 36th, " That 
foul drama deep with wrong," is nobly expres- 
sive. Verse 46th, I am afraid, is rather un- 
worthy of the rest ; " to dare to feel" is an idea 
that I do not altogether like. The contract of 
valour and mercy, from the 86th verse to the 
50th, is admirable. 

Either my apprehension is dull, or there is 
something a little confused in the apostrophe to 
Mr. Pitt. Verse 55th is the antecedent to verses 
57th and 58th, but in verse 58th the connexion 
seems ungrammatical : — 
" Powers 

With no graoacionci mark'd their flight, 
But rose at once to glory's height." 

Ris'n should be the word instead of rose. Try 
it in prose. Powers, — their flight marked by 
no gradations, but [the same powers] risen at 
once to the height of glory. Likewise, verse 
53d. "For this," is evidently meant to lead on 
the sense of the verses 59th, 60th, 61st, and 
^Zi- but let us try how the thread of connex- 
woD funs, — 

" For this 

The deeds oi mercy, that embrace 
A distant sphere, an alien race, 
Shall virtue's lips record and claim 
The fairest honours of tliy name." 

I beg pardon if I misapprehended the matter, 
but tliis appears to me the only imperfect pas- 
lage in the poem. The comparison of the sun- 
beam is fine. 

The compliment to the Duke of Richmond is, 



I hope, as just as it is ceitainly elegant- Th# 
thougnt, 

""Virtue .... 

Sends from her unsoi«i(id source. 

The gems ot though., their purest force," 

is exceeding beautiful. The idea, from vers« 
81st to the 85th, that the " blest decree" is like 
the beams of morning ushering in the glorious 
day of liberty, ought not to pass unnoticed or 
unapplauded. From verse 85th to verse 108th, 
is an animated contrast between the unfeeling 
selfishness of the oppressor on the one hand, 
and the misery of the captive on the other. 
Verse 88th might perhaps be amended thus : 
" Nor ever quit her narrow maze." We are said 
to pass a bound, but we quit a maze. Verse 100th 
is exquisitely beautiful : — 

" They, whom wasted blessings tire.'' 

Verse 110th is I doubt a clashing of metaphors j 
*' to load a span" is, I am afraid, an unwarrant- 
able expression. In verse 114th, "Cast the 
universe in shade," is a fine idea. From the 
115th verse to the 142d is a striking description 
of the wrongs of the poor African. Verse 
120th, "The load of unremitted pain," is a re- 
markable, strong expression. The address to the 
advocates for abolishing the slave-trade, from 
verse 143d to verse 208th, is animated with 
the true life of genius. The picture of oppres- 
sion, — 

" While she links her impious chain, 
And calculates the price of pain; 
Weighs agony in sordid scales, • 

And marks if death or life prevails," — 

is nobly executed. 

What a tender idea is in verse 108th ! In- 
deed, that whole description of home may vie 
with Thomson's description of home, some- 
where in the beginning of his Autumn, I do 
not remember to have seen a stronger expres- 
sion of misery than is contained in these 
verses : — 

• Condemiied severe extreme > ro ive 
y,'iien all is fled that life cise give '' 

The comparison of our distant joys to llstai^t 
objects is equally original and striking. 

The character and manners of the dealer in 
the infernal traffic is a well done though a hor- 
rid picture. I am not sure how far introduc- 
ing the sailor was right ; for though the sailor's 
common characteristic is generosity, yet, in 
this case, he is certainly not only an uncon- 
cerned witness, but, io some degree, an eflBcf^nt 



agent in the business. Verse 224th is a ner- 
vous .... expressive — " The heart convulsive 
anguish breaks." The description of the cap- 
tive wretch when he arrives in the West Indies, 
is carried on with equal spirit. The thought 
that the oppressor's sorrow on seeing the slave 
pine, is like the butcher's regret when his 
destined lamb dies a natural death, is exceed- 
ingly fine. 

I am got so much into the cant of criticism, 
that I begin to be afraid lest I have nothing ex- 
cept the cant of it ; and instead of elucidating 
my author, am only benighting myself. For 
this reason, I will not pretend to go through the 
whole poem. Some few remaining beautiful 
lines, however, I cannot pass over. Verse 280th 
is the strongest description of selfishness I ever 
saw The comparison of verses 285th and 
286th is new and fine; and the line, "Your 
arms to penury you lend," is excellent. In 
verse 317th, "like" should certainly be "as" 
or " so ;" for instance — 

" His sway the hardened bosom leads 
To cruelty's remorseless deeds : 
As (or, so) the blue liglitnin<3: when it springs 
With fury on its livid wings, 
Darts on the goal with rapid force, 
Nor heeds that ruin mai-ks its course." 

If you insert the word " like " where I have 
placed " as," you must alter "darts" to "dart- 
ing," and "heeds" to "heeding" in order to 
make it grammar. A tempest is a favourite 
subject with the poets, but I do not remember 
anything even in Thomson's Winter superior to 
your verses from the 347th to the S5lst. In- 
deed, the last simile, beginning with ^' Fancy 
may dress," &c., and ending with the 350th 
verse, is, in my opinion, the most beautiful pas- 
sage in the poem; it would do honour to the 
g'reatest names that ever graced our profession. 

I will not beg your pardon, Madam, for these 
Btrictures, as my conscience tells me, that for 
once in my life I have acted up to the duties of 
R Christian, in doing as I would be done by. 

R. B. 



xcv. 

TO MR. RICHARD BROWN, 

IRVIN E. 

IMichard Brown wis the " hapless son of misfortune," 
aiaded to by 3urns ir his biographical letter to Dr. 



Moore : by fortiti4de and prudence he retrieved his for- 
tunes, and lived much respected in Greenock, to a go«MJ 
old age. He said Burns had little to learn in matters oi 
levity, when he became acquainted with him.] 

Edinburgh, Wth Dec 1787. 
My dear Sir, 

I HAVE met with few things in life whicL 
have given me more " pleas'jre than Fortune's 
kindness to you since those days in which we 
met in the vale of misery ; as I can honestly 
say, that I never knew a man who more truly 
deserved it, or to whom my heart more truly 
wished it. I have been much indebted since 
that time to your story and sentiments for steel- 
ing my mind against evils, of which I have had 
a pretty decent share. My will-o'wisp fate 
you know : do you recollect a Sunday we spent 
together in Eglinton woods ! You told me, on 
my repeating some verses to you, that you won- 
dered I could resist the temptation of sending 
verses of such merit to a magazine. It was 
from this remark I derived that idea of my own 
pieces, which encouraged me to endeavour at 
the character of a poet. I am happy to hear 
that you will be two or three months at home. 
As soon as a bruised limb will permit me, I 
shall return to Ayrshire, and we shall meet ; 
" and faith, I hope we'll not sit dumb, nor yet 
cast out !" 

I have much to tell you '• of men, their man- 
ners, and their ways," perhaps a little of the 
other sex. Apropos, I beg to be remembered 
to Mrs. Brown, There I doubt not, my dear 
friend, but you havie found substantial happiness. 
I expect to find you something of an altered but 
not a different man ; the wild, Bold, generous 
young fellow composed into the steady affection- 
ate husband, and the fond careful parent. Foi 
me, I am just the same will-o'-wisp being I usea 
to be. About the first and fourth quarters of the 
moon, I generally set in for the trade wind of 
wisdom ; but about the full and change, I am 
the luckless victim of mad tornadoes, which 
blow me into chaos. Almighty love si;ill reigna 
and revels in my bosom ; and I am at this mo- 
ment ready to hang myself for a young Edin- 
burgh widow, who has wit and wisdom more 
murderously fatal than the assassinating stiletto 
of the Sicilian banditti, or the poisoned arrow of 
the savage African. My highland dirk, that used 
to hang beside my crutches, I have gravely re- 
moved into a neighbouring closet, the key of 
which 1 cannot command in case of spring 
tide paroxysms. You may guess of her wit b^ 



OF EOBEKT BURNS. 



S61i 



'he following verses, which she sent me th( 
♦tier day :— 

Talk not of love, it gives me pam, 

t or love has been my foe ; 
Hm bound me with an iron chain, 

And plunged nie deep in woe ! 

But friendship's pure and lasting joys, 

My heart Avas formed to prove, — 
There, welcome, win, and wear the prize, 

But never talk of love ! 

Yuar friendship much can make me blest— 

O why that bliss destroy ? 
Why urge the odious one request, 

You know I must deny?"i 

My best compliments to our friend Allan, 
•dieu! R. B. 



XCVI. 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON. 

^fhe Hamiltons of the West continue to love the 
oemory of Burns : the old arm-chair in which the bard 
lat, wlien he visited Nanse Tinnocks, was lately pra- 
lented to the mas. n lodge of Mauchline, by Dr. Hamil- 
ion, the " wee cuny Johnnie" of the Dedication.] 

lEdinburgh, Dec. 1787.] 
My dear Sir, 
It is indeed with the highest pleasure that 
t congratulate you on the return of days of ease 
ind nights of pleasure, after the horrid hours 
of misery in which I saw you suffering existence 
when last in Ayrshire ; I seldom pray for any 
body, " I'm baith dead-sweer and wretched ill 
o't ;" but most fervently do I beseech the Power 
that directs the world, that you may live long 
and be happy, but live no longer than you are 
happy. It is needless -for me to advise \ ou to 
have a reverend care of your health. I know 
you will make it a point never at one time to 
drink more than a pint of wine (I mean an 
English pint), and that you will never be wit- 
ness to more than one bowl of punch at a time, 
and that cold drams you will never more taste ; 
and, above all things, I am convinced, that after 
drinking perhaps boiling punch, you will never 
mount your horse and gallop home in a chill 
late hour. Above all things, as I understand 
you are in habits of intimacy with that Boaner- 
ges of gospel powers, Father Auld, be earnest 
with him that he will wrestle in prayer for you, 

1 See song 186, in JohnsoL's Musical Museum. Burns 
iltored the two last lines, and added a stanza: 
Why urge the only one request 
You know I will deny ! 
24 



that you may see the vanity of vanities in trust- 
ing to, or even practising the casual moral 
works of charity, humanity, genorosity, and 
forgiveness of things, which you practised so 
flagrantly that it was evident you delighted in 
them, neglecting, or perhaps profanely despis- 
ing, the wholesome doctrine of faith without 
works, the only anchor of salvation. A hym:i 
of thanksgiving would, in my opinion, be highly 
becoming from you at present, and in my zeal for 
your well-being, I earnestly press on you to be 
diligent in chanting over the two enclosed pieces 
of sacred poesy. My best compliments to Mrs. 
Hamilton and Miss Kennedy. 

Yours in the L — d, 

E. B. 



XCVII. 

TO MISS CHALMERo. 

[The blank which takeis the place of the name cf th« 
" Gentleman in mind and manners," of this letter, can- 
not now be filled up, nor is it much matter : the acquaint 
ance of such a man as the poet describes few or noM 
would desire.] 

Edinburgh, Dec. 1787. 
My dear Madam, 
I JUST now have read yours. The poetic 
compliments I pay cannot be misunderstood. 
They are neither of them so particular as to 
point you out to the world at large ; and the 
circle of your acquaintances will allow all I have 
said. Besides, I have complimented you chiefly^ 
almost solely, on your mental charms. Shall I 
be plain with you ? I will ; so look to it. Per- 
sonal attractions. Madam, you have much above 
par ; wit, understanding, and worth, you pos- 
sess in the first class. This is a cursed flat way 
of telling you these truths, but let me hear no 
more of your sheepish timidity. I know the 
world a little. I know what they will say of 
my poems ; by second sight I suppose .; for I 
am seldom out in my conjectures ; and you mar 
believe me, my dear Madam, I would not run 
any risk of hurting you by any ill-judged com 
pliment. I wish to show to the world, the odds 
between a poet's friends and those of simple 
prosemen. More for your information, both the 
pieces go in. One of them, '* Where bravinjj 



Your thought if love must harl-our there, 

Conceal it in that thought; 
Nor cause me from my bosom tear 

The very friend I sousfht. 



angry winter's storms, ""is already set — the tune 
is Neil Gow's Lamentation for Abercarny ; the 
other is to be set to an old Highland air in Da- 
niel Dow's collection of ancient Scots music; 
the name is " Ha a Chaillich air mo Dheith." My 
treacherous memory has forgot every circum- 
stance about Les Incas, only I think you men- 
tione-J them as being in Creech's possession. I 
shall ask him about it. I am afraid the song 
^f " Somebody" will come too late — as I shall, 
for certain, leave town in a week for Ayrshire, 
and from that to Dumfries, but there my hopes 
are slender. I leave my direction in town, so 
anything, wherever I am, will reach me. 

1 saw yours to ; it is not too severe, nor 

did he take it amiss. On the contrary, like a 
whipt spaniel, he talks of being with you in the 

Christmas days. Mr. has given him the 

invitation, and he is determined to accept of it. 
selfishness! he owns, in his sober mom eilts, 
that from his own volatility of inclination, the 
circumstances in which he is situated, and his 
knowledge of his father's disposition; — the 
whole affair is chimerical — ^yet he will gratify 
an id] & penchant at the enormous, cruel expense, 
of perhaps ruining the peace of the very woman 
for whom he professes the generous passion of 
hve ! He is a gentleman in his mind and man- 
ners — tint pis ! He is a volatile school-boy— 
the heir of a man's fortune who well knows the 
V£.lue of two times two I 

Perdition seize them and their fortunes, be- 
fore they should make the amiable, the lovely 

, the derided object of their purse-proud 

contempt I 

1 am doubly happy to hear of Mrs, 's reco- 

Tery, because I really thought all was over vs^th 
her. There are days of pleasure yet awaiting 
her : 

' As f came in by Glenap, 
I mat with an aged woman: 
She bad me cheer up my heart, 
For the best o' my days was conan'." 

Tnis day will decide my affairs with Creech. 
Things are, like myself, not what they ought to 
^e , yet better than what they appear to be. 

'< Heaven's sovereign saves all beings but himself— 
That hideous sight— a naktd human hsart." 



Fftrewell ! remember me to Charlotte. 



xcvin. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[The poet alludes in this letter, as in some before, to i 
hurt which he got in one of his excursions ir. the oeiglt 
hourhood of Edinburgh.] 

Edinburgh, January 21, 178S. 

After six weeks' confinement, I am beginninf 
to walk across the room. They have been sii 
horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits ma le 
me unfit to read, write, or think. 

I have a hundred times wished that one coulu 
resign life as an officer resigns a commission* 
fori would not take in any poor, ignorant wretch, 
by selling out. Lately I was a sixpenny private ; 
and, God knows, a miserable soldier enough ; 
now I march to the campaign, a starving cadet : 
a little more conspicuously wretched. 

I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do 
want bravery for the warfare of life, I could 
wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much 
fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal 
my cowardice. 

As soon as I can bear the journey, which will 
be, I suppose, about the middle of next week, I 
leave Edinburgh : and soon after I shall pay 
my grateful duty at Dunlop-House. 

R. B. 



B. B. 



XCIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[The levity with which Burns sometimes spoke of 
things sacred, had been obliquely touched upon by his 
good and anxious friend Mrs. Duulop: he pleads guilty 
of folly, but not of irreligion.] 

Edinburgh, February 12, 17}>S, 
Some things in your late letters hurt me : not 
that you say them, but that you mistake me* Re- 
ligion, my honoured Madam, has not only been 
all my life my chief dependence, but my d( areet 
enjoyment. I have, indeed, been the lucJclesf 
victim of wayward follies ; but, alas I I hafc 
ever been " more fool than knave." A Jiathfl 
matician without religion is a probable iharaO' 
ter ; an irreligious poet is a monster. 

R. B 



C. 



•TO THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

[When Bump undertook to suppl> J :)hnson vriW sonf s 
for the Musical Museum, he laid all the bards of SrotiaM 



inder contribution, and Skinner among the number, of 
irhose talents, as wel. as those of Ross, author of Hele- 
t«ore he was a great admirer.] 

Edinburgh, 14ith February, 1788. 
Reverend and dear Sir, 

I HAVE been a cripple now near three months, 
though I am getting vastly better, and have 
been very much hurried beside, or else I would 
k&ve wrote you sooner. I must beg your par- 
i^u for the epistle you sent me appearing in the 
Magazine. I had given a copy or two to some 
of my intimate friends, but did not know of the 
printing of it till the publication of the Maga- 
zine. However, as it does great honour to us 
both, you -vrill forgive it. 

The second volume of the songs I mentioned 
to you in my last is published to-day. I send 
you a copy which I beg you will accept as a 
mark of the veneration I have long had, and 
shall ever have, for your character, and of the 
claim I make to your continued acquaintance. 
Your songs appear in the third volume, with 
your name in the index ; as, I assure you. Sir, 
I have heard your " Tullochgorum," particu- 
larly among our west-country folks, given to 
many different names, and most commonly to 
the immortal author of " The Minstrel," who, 
Indeed, never wrote anything superior to <'Gie's 
a sang, Montgomery cried." Your brother has 
promised me your verses to the Marquis of 
Huntley's reel, which certainly deserve a place 
in the collection. My kind host, Mr. Cruik- 
Bhank, of the High-school here, and said to be 
one of the best Latins in this age, begs me to 
make you his grateful acknowledgments for the 
entertainment he has got in a Latin publica- 
tion of yours, that I borrowed for him from 
your acquaintance and much respected friend 
in this place, the Reverend Dr. Webster. Mr. 
Cruikshank maintains that you write the best 
Latin since Buchanan. I leave Edinburgh to- 
morrow, but shall return in three weeks. Your 
long you mentioned in your last, to the tune of 
"Dumbarton Drums," and the other, which you 
?ay was done by a brother by trade of mine, a 
ploughman, I shall thank you much for a copy 
of each. I am ever, Reverend Sir, with the 
most respectful esteem and sincere veneration, 
[ours, . R. B. 



CI. 



TO RiCHARD BROWN. 

[The letters of Bu'-ns to Brown, and Smith, and Fie* 
mond, and others of his west-co nntry friends, writt«| 
when he ^vas in the first flush of fame, show that he iid 
not forget humble men, who anticipated the pablit « 
perceiving his merit.] 

Edinburgh, February lht\ 1788. 
My DEAR Friend, 
I received yours with the greatest pleasure. 
I shall arrive at Glasgow on Monday evening ; 
and beg, if possible, you will meet me on Tues- 
day. I shall wait you Tuesday all day. I shall 
be found at Davies', Black Bull inn. I am hur- 
ried, as if hunted by fifty devils, else I should 
go to Greenock ; but if you cannot possibly come, 
write me, if possible, to Glasgow, on Monday ; 
Of direct to me at Mossgiel by Mauchline ; and 
name a day and place in Ayrshire, within a fort- 
night from this date, where I may meet you. I 
only stay a fortnight in Ayrshire, and return 
to Edinburgh. I am ever, my dearest friend, 

yours, 

R B. 



cn. 

TO MRS. ROSE, OF KILRAVOCjL. 

[Mrs. Rose of Kilravock, a lady distinguished 6y tiie 
elegance of her manners, as well as by her talents, wag 
long remembered by Burns : she procured for him snatches 
of old songs, and copies of northern melodies ; to her we 
owe the preservation of some fine aiis as well as the in 
spiration of some fine lyrics.] 

Edinburgh, February 17th, 1788. 
Madam, 

You are much indebted to some indispensably 
business I have had on my hands, otherwise my 
gratitude threatened such a return for youf 
obliging favour as would have tired your ps.ti 
ence. It but poorly expresses my feelings to say 
that I am sensible of your kindness : it may b« 
said of hearts such as yours is, and such, I hope, 
mine is, much more justly than Addison appliea 
it,— 

" Some souls by instinct to each other turn." 

There was something in my reception at Kil- 
ravock so different from the cold, obsequious^ 
dancing-school bow of politeness, that it almosi 
got into my head that friendship had occupie«i 



^72 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



ner ground "without the intermediate march of _ 
acquaintance. I wish I could transcribe, or 
father transfuse into language, the glow of my 
lieart when I read your letter. My ready fancy, 
with colours more mellow than life itself, painted 
the beautifully wild scenery of Kilravock — the 
vciierable grandeur of the castle — the spreading 
Woods — the winding river, glady leaving his 
nrjsightly, heathy source, and lingering with ap- 
parent delight as he passes the fairy walk at thie 
bottom of the garden ; — your late distressful 
anxieties — your present enjoyments — ^your dear 
little angel, the pride of your hopes; — my aged 
friend, venerable in worth and years, whose 
loyalty and other virtues will strongly entitle 
her to the support of the Almighty Spirit here, 
and his peculiar favour in a happier state of ex- 
istence. You cannot imagine. Madam, how 
much such feelings delight me ; they are my 
dearest proofs of my own immortality. Should 
I never revisit the north, as probably I never 
will, nor again see your hospitable mansion, 
were I, some twenty years hence, to see your 
little fellow's name making a proper figure in a 
newspaper paragraph, my heart would bound 
with pleasure. 

I am assisting a friend in a collection of Scot- 
tish songs, set to their proper tunes ; every air 
worth preserving is to be included : among others 
I have given " Morag," and some few Highland 
airs which pleased me most, a dress which will 
be more generally known, though far, far infe- 
rior in real merit. As a small mark of my 
grateful esteem, I beg leave to present you with 
a copy of the work, as far as it is printed ; the 
Man of Feeling, that first of men, has promised 
to transmit it by the first opportunity. 

I beg to be remembered most respectfully to 
my venerable friend, and to your little Highland 
chieftain. When you see the "two fair spirits 
of the hill," at Kildrummie,^ tell them that I 
have done myself the honour of setting myself 
iown as one of their admirers for at least twenty 
years to come, consequently they must look 
upon me as an acquaintance for the same period ; 
but, as the apostle Paul says, " this I ask- of 
grace, not of debt." 

I have the honour to be, Madam, &c., 

R. B. 



cm. 

TO RICHARD BROWN. 

[While Burns w^as confined to his lodgings by Im 
maimed limb, he beguiled the time and eased the pain by 
composing the Clarinda epistles, writing songs for John 
son, and letters to his companions.] 

Mossgiel, 2Uh Februarj, 178?. 
Mr DEAR Sir, 
I CANNOT get the proper direction for mj 
friend in Jamaica, but the following will do :— 
To Mr. Jo. Hutchinson, at Jo. Brownrigg's, 
Esq., care of Mr. Benjamin Henriquez, mer^ 
chant. Orange-street, Kingston. I arrived here, 
at my brother's, only yesterday, after fighting my 
way through Paisley and Kilmarnock, against 
those old powerful foes of mine, the devil, the 
world, and the flesh — so terrible in the fields oi 
dissipation. I have met with few incidents in 
my life which gave me so much pleasure aa 
meeting you in Glasgow. There is a time of 
life beyond which we cannot form a tie worth 
the name of friendship. " youth ! enchanting 
stage, profusely blest." Life is a fairy scene : 
almost all that deserves the name of enjoyment 
or pleasure is only a charming delusion ; and in 
comes repining age in all the gravity of hoary 
wisdom, and wretchedly chases away the be- 
witching phantom. When I think of life, I re- 
solve to keep a strict look-out in the course of 
economy, for the sake of worldly convenience 
and independence of mind ; to cultivate intimacy 
with a few of the companions of youth, that 
they may be the friends of age ; never to re- 
fuse my liquorish humour a handful of tha 
sweetmeats of life, when they come not too dear; 
and, for futurity, — 

" The present moment is our ain. 
The neist we never saw !"1 

How like you my philosophy ? Give my beaJ 
compliments to Mrs. B., and believe me to be, 
My dear Sir, 

Yours most truly, 
R. B 



* Mies !*ophia Brodie, of 
Ailravoci. 



and Miss Rose of 



CIV. 

TO MR. WILLIAM CEUIKSHANK. 

[The excise and farming alternately occupied tne poet'f 
thoughts in Edinburgh : he studied booi s of husbaadrf 

2 Mickle. 



OF ROBEKT BUHNS. 



373 



nd took lessons in gauging, and in the .atter he became 
rport.J 

Mauchline, March Bd, 1788. 
My dear Sir, 

Apologies for not writing are frequently 
dke apologies for not singing — the apology 
Better than the song. I have fought my way 
severely through the savage hospitality of this 
country, to send every guest drunk to hed if 
cJiey can. 

I executed your commission in Glasgow, and 
I hope the cocoa came safe. 'Twas the same 
price and the very same kind as your former 
parcel, for the gentleman recollected your buy- 
ing there perfectly well. 

I should return my thanks for your hos- 

pitality (I leave a blank for the epithet, as I 
know none can do it justice) to a poor, wayfar- 
ing bard, who was spent and almost overpowered 
fighting with prosaic wickednesses in high 
places ; but I am afraid lest you should burn 
the letter whenever you come to the passage, 
so i pass over it in silence. I am just re- 
turned from visiting Mr. Miller's farm. The 
friend whom I told you I would take with me' 
was highly pleased with the farm ; and as he is, 
mthout exception, the most intelligent farmer 
in the country, he has staggered me a good 
deal. I have the two plans of life before me ; 
I shall balance them to the best of my judgment, 
aud fix on tne most eligible. I have written 
Mr. Miller, and shall wait on him when I come 
to town, which shall be the beginning o.r middle 
of next week ; I would be in sooner, but my un- 
lucky knee is rather worse, and I fear for some 
time will scarcely stand the fatigue of my Ex- 
cise instructions. I only mention these ideas to 
you ; and, indeed, except Mr. Ainslie, whom I 
Intend writing to to-morrow, I will not write at 
all to Edinburgh till I return to it, I would 
Bend my compliments to Mr. Nicol, but he would 
be hurt if he knew I wrote to anybody and not 
'o him : so I shall only beg my best, kindest, 
kindest compliments to my worthy hostess and 
tie sweet little rose-bud. 

So soon as I am settled in the routine of life, 
»ither as an Excise-officer, or as a farmer, I pro- 
pose myself great pleasure from a regular cor- 
respondence with the only man almost I ever 
eaw who joined the most attentive prudence with 
the warmest generosity. 

I am much interested for that best of men. 



Mr. Wood ; I hope he is in better health ana 
spirits than when I saw him last. 
I am ever, 

My dearest friend, 
Your obliged, humble servant, 

B B 



cv. 

TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

[The sensible and intelligent farmer on whose jw-1^ 
ment Burns depended in the choice of his farm, wag Mr 
Tait, of Glenconner.] 

Mauchline, Sd 3Iarch^ 1788. 
My dear Friend, 

I AM just returned from Mr. Miller's farm. 
My oid friend whom I took with me was highly 
pleased with the bargain, and advised me to ac- 
cept of it. He is the most intelligent sensible 
farmer in the county, and his advice has stag- 
gered me a good deal. I have the two plans 
before me : I shall endeavour to balance them 
to the best of my judgement, and fix on the 
most eligible. On the whole, if I find Mr. Mil 
ler in the same favourable disposition as when 
I saw him last, I shall in all probability turn 
farmer. 

I have been through sore tribulation and 
under much buffeting of the wicked one since 
I came to this country. Jean I found banished, 
forlorn, destitute and friendless : I have recoE 
ciled her to her fate, and I have reconciled he* 
to her mother. 

I shall be in Edinburgh middle of next week. 
My farming ideas I shall keep private till I see, 
I got a letter from Clarinda yesterday, and she 
tells me she has got no letter of mine but one. 
Tell her that I wrote to her from Glas'gow, frcm 
Kilmarnock, from Mauchline, and yosterdaj 
from Cumnock as I returned from DamfriesSi 
Indeed she is the only person in Edinburgh \ 
have written to till this day. How are your soitl 
and body putting up ? — a little like man an^ 
wife, I suppose. K. B 



874 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



cvi. 

TO KICHARD BROWN. 

[Richard Brown, it is said, fell off in his liking for 
Burns when he found that he had made free with his 
asaae in his epistle to Moore.] 

Mauehline, 7th March, 1788. 

I H kVE been out of the country, my dear friend, 
And have not had an opportunity of writing till 
now, when I am afraid you will be gone out of 
the country too. I have been looking at farms, 
and, after all, perhaps I may settle in the cha- 
racter of a farmer. I have got so vicious a bent 
to idier^ess, and have ever been so little a man 
of business, that it will take no ordinary eflFort 
to bring my mind properly into the routine: but 
yon will say a "great effort is worthy of you." 
I say so myself ; and butter up my vanity with 
all the stimulating compliments I can think of. 
Men of grave, geometrical minds, the sons of 
*' which was to be demonstrated," may cry up 
reason as much as they please ; but 1 have al- 
ways found an honest passion, or native instinct, 
*he truest auxiliary in the warfare of this 
world. Reason almost always comes to me like 
an unlucky wife to a poor devil of a husband, 
just in sufficient time to add her reproaches to 
his other grievances. 

I am gratified with your kind inquiries after 
Jean ; as, after all, I may say with Othello : — 

" Excellent wretch ! 

Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee !" 

I go for Edinburgh on Monday. 

Yours,«B. B. 



CVII. 
TO MR. MUIR. 



[The change which Burns says in this .etter took place 
ia 018 ideas, refers, it is said, to his "West India voyage, 
OB which, it appears by one of his letters to Smith, he 
meditated for some time after his debut in Edinburgh.] 

Mossgiel, 1th March, 1788. 
Dear Sir, 
I HAVE partly changed my ideas, my dear 
friend, since I saw you. I took old Glenconner 
with me to Mr. Miller's farm, and he was so 
pleased with it, that I have wrote an offer to 
Mr. Miller, which, if he accepts, I shall sit down 
a plain farmer, the happiest of lives when a man 
san live by it In this case I shall not stay io 



Edinburgh above a week. I set out on Monday, 
and would have come by Kilmarnock, but ther« 
are several small sums owing me for my first 
edition about Galston and Newmills, and I shall 
set off so early as to dispatch my business, and 
reach Glasgow by night. When I return, I 
shall devote a forenoon or two to make seme 
kind of acknowledgment for all the kindness 1 
owe your friendship. Now. that I hope to setf-a 
with some credit and comfort at home, there 
was not any friendship or friendly correspon 
dence that promised me more pleasure than 
yours ; I hope I will not be disappointed. I 
trust the spring will renew your shattered frame, 
and make your friends happy. You and I have 
often agreed that life is no great blessing on the 
whole. The close of life, indeed, to a reasoning 
eye, is, 

" Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was roll'd together, or had try'd his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound. "i 

But an honest man has nothing to fear. If 
we lie down in the grave, the whole man a piece 
of broken machinery, to moulder with the cloda 
of the valley, be it so ; at least there is an end 
of pain, care, woes, and wants : if that part of ua 
called mind does survive the apparent destruc- 
tion of the man — away with old-wife prejudices 
and tales ! Every age and every nation has had 
a different set of stories ; and as the many are 
always weak, of consequence, they have often, 
perhaps always, been deceived ; a man conscious 
of having acted an honest part among his fellow- 
creatures — even granting that he may have 
been the sport at times of passions and instincts 
— he goes to a great unknown Being, who could 
have no other end in giving him existence but 
to make him happy, who gave him those pas- 
sions and instincts, and well knows their force 

These, my worthy friend, are my ideas ; and 
I know they are not far different from yours. 
It becomes a man of sense to think for himself, 
particularly in a case where all men are equally 
interested, and where, indeed, all men are equ ah j 
in the dark. 

Adieu, my dear Sir ; God send us a cheerful 
meeting! R. B. . 

1 Blair's Grave. 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



87b 



CVIII. 

TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

{One of the Jaughters of Mrs. Dunlop painted a sketch 
|»f C-. la from Burns's poem of the Vision : it is still in 
txittence, and is said to have merit.] 

Mossgid 17th March, 1788. 

M A.DAM, 

1h€ last paragraph in yours of the 30th Fe- 
61 aarj affected me most, so I shall begin my 
answer where you ended your letter. That I 
am often a sinner with any little wit I have, I 
d: confess : but I have taxed my recollection to 
a purpose, to find out when it was employed 
against you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a 
great deal worse than I do the devil ; at least 
as Milton describes him ; and though I may be 
rascally enough to be sometimes guilty of it my- 
self, I cannot endure it in others. You, my 
honoured friend, who cannot appear in any light 
but you are sure of being respectable — you can 
afford to pass by an occasion to display your 
wit, because you may depend for fame on your 
sense ; or, if you choose to be silent, you know 
you can rely on the gratitude of many, and the 
esteem of all ; but, God help us, who are wits 
or witlings by profession, if we stand not for 
fame there, we sink unsupported ! 

I am highly flattered by the news you tell me 
of Coila. I may say to the fair painter who 
does me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie says to 
Ross the poet of his muse Scota, f^om which, 
by the bye, I took the idea of Coila ('tis a poem 
of Beattie's in the Scottish dialect, which per- 
haps you have never seen :) — 

" Ye shak your heads, but o' ray fegs, 
Ye've set auld Scota on her legs : 
Lang had she lien wi' beffs and flegs, 
Bambaz'd and dizzie, 
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs. 

Wae's me, poor Lizzie." 
R. B. 



CIX. 
TO MISS CHALMERS. 

•"Th* incouth cares of which the poet complams in 
this leaer were the construction of a common farm- 
»ou6e, with barn, byre, and stable to suit.] 

Edinburgh, March 14, 1788. 
I KNOW, my ever dear friend, that you will be 
pleased with the news when I tell you, I have 
at last taken a lease of a farm. Yesternight I 



completed a bargain with Mr. MiJer, of Dal- 
swinton, for the farm of Ellisland, on the banks 
of the Nith, between five and six' miles above 
Dumfries. I begin at Whit-Sunday to build a 
house, drive lime, &c. ; and heaven be my help J 
for it will take a strong effort to bring my mind 
into the routine of business. I have discharged 
all the army of my former pursuits, fancies, anc* 
pleasures ; a motley host ! and have literally 
and strictly retained only the ideas of a fe^ 
friends, which I have incorporated into a life 
guard. I trust in Dr. Johnson's observation, 
"Where much is attempted, something is dene." 
Firmness, both in sufferance and exertion, is a 
character I would wish to be thought to pos- 
sess : and have always despised the whining 
yelp of complaint, and the cowardly, feeble r© 
solve. 

Poor Miss K. is ailing a good deal this 
winter, and begged me to remember her to yo'S 
the first time I wrote to you. Surely woman, 
amiable woman, is often made in vain. Too 
delicately formed for the rougher pursuits of 
ambition; too noble for the dirt of avarice, 
and even too gentle for the rage of pleasure ; 
formed indeed for, and highly susceptible of en- 
joyment and rapture; but that enjoyment, 
alas ! almost wholly at the mercy of the caprice, 
malevolence, stupidity, or wickedness of an 
animal at all times comparatively unfeeling, and 
often brutal. R B 



ex. 

TO RICHARD BROWN. 

[The excitement referred to in this letter arose Irom 
the dilatory and reluctant movements of Creech, who 
was so slow in settling his accounts that the poet ena« 
pected his solvency.] 

Glasgow, 2Qth March, 1788. 
I AM monstrously to blame, my dear Sir, ixk 
not writing to you, and sending you the Direo* 
tory. I have been getting my tack extended* 
as I have taken a farm ; and I have been rack- 
ing shop accounts with Mr. Creech, both of 
which, together with watching, fatigue, and a 
load of care almost too heavy for my shoulders, 
have in some degree actually fevered me. I 
really forgot the Directory yesterday, whicli 
vexed me ; but I was convulsed with rage a great 
part of the day. I have to thank you for the 
ingenious, friendly, and elegant epistle from 



jrour friend Mr, Crawford. I shall certainly 
write to him, but not now. This is merely a 
card to you, as I am posting to Dumfries-shire, 
where many perplexing arrangements await 
me. I am vexed about the Directory ; but, my 
dear Sir, forgive me : these eight days I have 
been positively crazed. My compliments to 
Mrs B. I shall write to you at Grenada. — 
I am ever, my dearest friend, 

Yours,— R. B. 



CXI. 

TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

[Cleghorn was a farmer, a social man, and much of a 
musician. The poet wrote the Chevalier's Lament to 
please the jacobitical taste of his friend ; and the musi- 
cian gave him advice in farming which he neglected to 
follow : — " Farmer Attention," says Cleghorn, '< is agood 
farmer everywhere."] 

Mauchline, ^\st March, 1788. 

Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was riding 
through a track of melancholy, joyless muirs, 
between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sun- 
Jay, I turned my thoughts to psalms, and 
Qymns, and spiritual songs ; and your favour- 
ite air, " Captain O'Kean," coming at length 
into my head, I tried these words to it. You 
will see that the first part of the tune must be 
**epeated. 

I am tolerably pleased with these verses, but 
as I have only a sketch of the tune, I leave it 
with you to try if they suit the measure of the 
music. 

I am so harassed with care and anxiety, about 
:his farming project of mine, that my muse has 
degenerated into the veriest prose-wench that 
ever picked cinders, or followed a tinker. When 
I am fairly got into the routine of business, I 
shall trouble you with a longer epistle ; perhaps 
with some queries respecting farming ; at pre- 
Bent, the world sits such a load on my mind, 
that it has effaced almost every trace of the 
poet in me. 

My very best compliments and good wishes 
)c Mrs C'eghorn. 

R. B. 



CXII. 



TO MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR, 

EDINBURGH. 

[This letter was printed for the first time by Robei 
Chambers, in his " People's Edition" of Burns J 

Mauchline, 7th April, 1788. 

I HAVE not delayed so long to write you, mj 
much respected friend, because I thought nc 
farther of my promise. I have long since 
give up that kind of formal correspondence, 
where one sits down irksomely to write a let- 
ter, because we think we are in duty bounl so 
to do. 

I have been roving over the country, as the 
farm I have taken is forty miles from this place, 
hiring servants and preparing matters ; but 
most of all I am earnestly busy to bring about 
a revolution in my own mind. As, till within 
these eighteen months, I never was the wealthy 
master of ten guineas, my knowledge of busi- 
ness is to learn ; add to this my late scenes of 
idleness and dissipation have enerva;ted my 
mind to an alarming degree. Skill in the sober 
science of life is my most serious and hourly 
study. I have dropt all conversation and al. 
reading (prose reading) but what tends in some 
way or other to my serious aim. Except one 
worthy young fellow, I have not one single 
correspondent in Edinburgh. You have indeed 
kindly made me an offer of that kind. The 
world of wits, and gens comme il faut which I 
lately left, and with whom I never again will 
intimately mix — from that port. Sir, I expect 
your Gazette : what les beaux esprits are saying, 
what they are doing, and what they are sing- 
ing. Any sober intelligence from my seques- 
tered walks of life ; any droll original ; any 
passing reward, important forsooth, because it 
is mine ; any little poetic effort, however em- 
bryoth ; these, my dear Sir, are all you have 
to expect from me. When I talk of poetic 
efforts, I must have it always understood, that 
I appeal from your wit and taste to your friend- 
ship and good nature. The first would be my 
favourite tribunal, where I defied censure ; but 
the last, where I declined justice. 

I have scarcely made a single distich since 
I saw you. When I meet with an old Soots air 
that has any facetious idea in its name, I have 
a peculiar pleasure in following out that idea foi 
a verse or two. 

I trust that this will find you in better health 



OF EGBERT BUENS. 



577 



<han I did last time I called for you. A few 
Unes from you, directed to me at Mauchline, 
were it but to let me know how you are, will 
kot my mind a good deal [at rest.] Now, never 
sLun the idea of writing me because perhaps 
yon may be out of humour or spirits. I could 
g'.ve you a hundred good consequences attend- 
i'ig i dull letter; one, for example, and the re- 
in aifiug ninety-rSne some other time — it will 
always serve to keep in countenance, my much 
respect'jd Sir, your obliged friend and humble 
bervant, R. B. 



CXIII. 
TO MISS CHALMERS. 

[The sacrifice referred to by the poet, was tus resolu- 
tion to unite his fortune with Jean Armour.] 

Mauchline, 7th April, 1788. 

I AM indebted to you and Miss Nimmo for 
letting me know Miss Kennedy. Strange ! how 
apt we are to indulge prejudices in our judg- 
ments of one another ! Even I, who pique my- 
self on ray skill in marking characters — because 
I am too proud of my character as a man, to be 
dazzled in my judgment for glaring wealth ; 
and too proud of my situation as a poor man 
to be biassed against squalid poverty — I was 
unacqiainted with Miss K.'s very uncommon 
worth. 

I am going on a good deal progressive in mon 
fraud but, the sober science of life. I have 
lately madt some sacrifices, for which, were I 
viva voce with you to paint the situation and re- 
ccant the circumstances, you should applaud 
mc. R. B. 



CXIV. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

' Taa i: iKt alluded to, was a whisper of the insolvency 
»t 2r««ci; but tne bailie was firm as the Bass.] 

No date. 
No"» %T t!iat wayward, unfortunate thing, my- 
self. I have broke measures with Creech, and 
last week I wrote him a frosty, keen letter. He 
replied in terms of chastisement, and promised 
me upon his honour thai I should have the ac- 
count on Monday ; but this is Tuesday, and yet 
I have not heard a word from him. God have 
mercj on me .' a poor d-mned, incautious, duped, 



unfortunate fool! The sport, the miserable 
victim of rebellious pride, hypochondriac ima« 
gination, agonizing sensibility, and bedlam pas- 
sions ? 

'* I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to 
die !" I had lately " a hairbreadth 'scape in th' 
imminent deadly breach" of love too. ThanlE 
my stars, I got off heart-whole, " waur fleyd thftffi 
hurt. " — Interruption , 

I have this moment got a hint : I fear I am 
something like — undone — but I hope for the 
best. Come, stubborn pride and unshrinking 
resolution ; accompany me through this, to me, 
miserable world ! You must not desert me I 
Your friendship I think I can count on, though 1 
should date my letters from a marching regiment. 
Early in life, and all my life I reckoned en a 
recruiting drum as my forlorn hope. Seriously 
though, life at present presents me with but ft 
melancholy path : but — my limb will soon t)« 
sound, and I shall struggle on. 

R. B. 



CXV. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

[Although Burns gladly grasped at a situation in tLfl 
Excise, he wrote many apologies to his friends, foi th* 
acceptance of a place, which, though humble enough^ 
was the only one that offered.] 

Edinburgh, Sunday. 
To-morrow, my dear madam, I leave Edin- 
burgh. I have altered all my plans of future 
life. A farm that I could live in, I could noi 
find ; and, indeed, after the necessary support 
my brother and the rest of the family required, 
I could not venture on farming in that style 
suitable to my feelings. You will condemn me 
for the next step I have taken. I have entered 
into the Excise. I stay in the west about three 
weeks, and then return to Edinburgh, for six 
weeks' instructions: afterwards, for I get era- 
ploy instantly, I go oil il plait d, Dieu, — et mon 
Roi. I have chosen this, my dear friend, after 
mature deliberation. The question is not at 
what door of fortune's palace shall we enter 
in ; but what doors does she open to us ? I waa 
not likely to get anything to do. I wanted un 
b{it, which is a dangerous, an unhappy situa 
tion. I got this without any hanging on, of 
mortifying solicitation ; it is immediate bread, 
and though poor in comparison of the la»t eigh- 
teen months of my existence, 'tis luxury iu com 



«78 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



parison of all my preceding life : besides, the 
tommissiouers are some of them my acquaint- 
ftnces, and all of them my firm friends. 

KB. 



CXVI. 
TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

[The Tasso, with the perusal of which Mrs. Dun-op 
indulged the poet, was not the fine version of Fairfax, 
but the translation of Hoole — a far inferior performance,] 

Mauchline, 2^th April, 1788. 
Madam, 
Your powers of reprehension must be great 
indeed, as I assure you they made my heart 
ache with penitential pangs, even though I was 
really not guilty. As I commence farmer at 
Whit-Sunday, you will easily guess I must be 
pretty busy ; but that is not all. As I got the 
offer of the Excise business without solicitation, 
and as it costs me only six months' attendance 
for instructions, to entitle me to a commission 
— which commission lies by me, and at any 
future period, on my simple petition, can be re- 
sumed — I thought five-and-thirty pounds a-year 
was no bad dernier ressort for a poor poet, if for- 
tune in her jade tricks should kick him down 
from the little eminence to which she has lately 
helped him up. 

For this reason, I am at present attending 
these instructions, to have them completed be- 
fore Whit-sunday. Still, Madam, I prepared 
with the sincerest pleasure to meet you at the 
Mount, and came to my brother's on Saturday 
night, to set out on Sunday ; but for some nights 
preceding I had slept in an apartment, where 
the force of the winds and rains was only miti- 
gated by being sifted through numberless aper- 
tures in the windows, walls, &c. In consequence 
£ was on Sunday, Monday, and part of Tuesday, 
anable to stir out of bed, with all the miserable 
©ffects of a violent cold. 

You seC; Madam, the truth of the French 
maxim, le vrai n^est pas toujours le vraisemblable ; 
your last was so full of expostulation, and was 
Bomething so like „the language of an offended 
Mend, that I began to tremble for a correspon- 
dence, which I had with grateful pleasure set 
down as one of the greatest enjoyments of my 
uture lifo- 



Your books have delighted me: Viigil, Dry 
den, and Tasso were all equally strangers to m« 
but of this more at large in my next. 

B. B. 



CXVII. 
TO MR. JAMES SMITH, 

AVON PRINTFIELD, LINLITHGOW. 

[James Sn^ith, as this letter intimates, had moved 'ton 
Mauchline to try to mend his fortunes at Avon Printfieid^ 
near Linlithgow.] 

Mauchline, April 28, 1788. 

Beware of your Strasburgh, my good Sir! 
Look on this as the opening of a correspon- 
dence, like the opening of a twenty-four gun 
battery ! 

There is no understanding a man properly, 
without knowing something of his previous 
ideas (that is to say, if the man has any ideas ; 
for I know many who, in the animal-muster, 
pass for men, that are the scanty masters of 
only one idea on any given subject, and by far 
the greatest part of your acquaintances and 
mine can barely boast of ideas, 1,25 — 1.5 — 1.75 
or some such fractional matter;) so to let you 
a little into the secrets of my pericranium, there 
is, you must know, a certain clean-limbed, 
handsome, bewitching young hussy of your ac- 
quaintance, to whom I have lately and pri- 
vately given a matrimonial title to my corpus. 

" Bode a robe and wear it, 
Bode a pock and bear it," 

says the wise old Scots adage ! I hate to pre- 
sage ill-luck ; and as my girl has been doubly 
kinder to me than even the best of women 
usually are to their partners of our sex, in 
similar circumstances, I reckon on twelve times 
a brace of children against I celebrate my 
twelfth wedding-day: these twenty-four will 
give me twenty-four gossipings, twenty-four 
christenings (I mean one equal to two), and 1 
hope, by the blessing of the God of my fathers, 
to make them twenty-four dutiful children to 
their parents, twenty-four useful members of 
society, and twenty -four approved servants of 
their God ! * * * 

" Light's heartsome," quo' the wife when she 
was stealing sheep. You see what a lamp I 
have hung up to lighten your paths, when you 
are idle enough to explore the combinations aiuf 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



871 



relations of my ideas. 'Tis now as plain as a 
pike-staif, why a twenty-four gun battery was 
a metaphor I could readily employ. 

Now for business. — I intend to present Mrs. 
Burns with a printed shawl, an article of which 
( dare say you have variety : 'tis my first pre- 
Bfnt to her since I have irrevocably called her 
mine, and I have a kind of whimsical wish to 
get her the first said present from an old and 
much-valued friend of hers and mine, a trusty 
Trojan, on whose fi-iendship I count myself pos- 
Bessed of as a life-rent lease. 

Look on this letter as a "beginning of sor- 
rows ;" I will write you till your eyes ache read- 
ing nonsense. 

Mrs. Barns ('tis only her private designation) 
begs her ^est compliments to you. 

R. B. 



cxvm. 

.O PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 

[Dugald Stewart loved the poet, admired his works, 
und enriched the biography of Carrie with some genuine 
reminiscences of his earlier days.] 



Mauchline, Bd May, 1788. 



Sir, 



I ENCLOSE you one or two more of my baga- 
telles. If the fervent wishes of honest grati- 
tude have any influence with that great unknown 
being who frames the chain of Clauses and events, 
prosperity and happiness will attend your visits 
to the continent, and return you safe to your 
native shore. 

Wherever I am, allow me, Sir, to claim it as 
my privilege to acquaint you with my progress 
in my trade of rhymes ; as I am sure I could 
Bay it with trutn, tuat next to my little fame, 
and the having it in my power to make life more 
comfortable to those whom nature has made 
icar to me, I shall ever regard your counte- 
Uftnce, your patronage, your friendly good 
cfficdi; a" the most valued consequence of my 
iaU success in life. R. B. 



CXIX. 

TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

lA poeja, 6ometh/ng alter the fashion of the Georgicg, 
«* Ion* p-ewnt to the mind of Burns: had fortune 



been more friendly he might have, in due time, produced 
it.] 

Mauchline, ^th May, 1788. 
Madam, 
Drtden's Virgil has delighted me. I do rxoi 
know whether the critics will agree with me 
but the Georgics are to me by far the best of 
Virgil. It is indeed a species of writing en 
tirely new to me ; and has filled my head wit} 
a thousand fancies of emulation : but, alas J 
when I read the Georgics, and then survey my 
own powers, 'tis like the idea of a Shetland 
pony, drawa up by the side of a thorough-bred 
hunter to start for the plate. I own I am dis 
appointed in the -^Eneid. Faultless correctness 
may please, and does highly please, the letterea 
critic : but to ttat awful character I have not 
the most distant pretensions. I do not know 
whether I do not hazard my pretensions to be 
a critic of any kind, when I say that I think 
Virgil, in many instances, a servile copier of 
Homer. If I had the Odyssey by me, I could 
parallel many passages vhere Virgil has evV 
dently copied, but by no maans improved. Ho 
mer. Nor can I think there 3s anything of thia 
owing to the translators ; foe, from everything 
I have seen of Dryden, I think him in genius 
and fluency of language. Pope's toaster. I hav^j 
not perused Tasso enough to form an opinion r 
in some future letter, you shall have my idea^ 
of him ; though I am conscious mj eri^,icismg 
must be very inaccurate and imperfec*-. a^ ther<i 
I have ever felt and lamented my waiiiv>f xear» 
ing most. S.. B. 



cxx. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE, 

[I have heard the gemlemaa say, to w^hom this »n!W 
letter is addressed, how much he was pleased witfi toa 
intimation, that the poet had reunited himself w.th Jeaf 
Armour, for he knew his heart was with her.] 

Mauchline, May 26, 1788. 
My dear Friend, 
I AM two kind letters in your debt, but I haT« 
been from home, and horribly busy, buying and 
preparing for my farming business, over and 
above the plague of my Excise instructions, 
which this week will finish. 

As I flatter my wishes that I foresee manj 
future years' correspondence between us, 'ti? 



S80 



GENEKAL CORRESPONDENCE 



foolish to talk of excusing dull epistles ; a dull 
letter may be a very kind one. I have the 
pleasure to tell you that I have been extremely 
fortunate in all my buyings, and bargainings 
Hitherto ; Mrs. Burns not excepted ; which title 
I now avow to the world. I am truly pleased 
with this last affair : it has indeed added to my 
anxieties for faturity, but it has given a stabi- 
lity to my mind, and resolutions unknown be- 
fore ; and the poor girl has the most sacred 
enthusiasm of attachment to me, and has not a 
wish but to gratify my every idea of her deport- 
ment. I am interrupted. — Farewell ! my dear 
Sir. R. B. 



CXXI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

(This letter, on the hiring season, is well worth the 
consideration of all masters, and all servants. In Eng- 
land, servants are engaged by the month ; in Scotland by 
the half-year, and therefore less at the mercy of the 
changeable and capricious.] 

21th May, 1788. 
Madam, 

I HAVE been torturing my philosophy to no 
purpose, to account for that kind partiality of 
yours, which has followed me, in my return to 
the shade of life, with assiduous benevolence. 
Often did I regret, in the fleeting hours of my 
late will-o'-wisp appearance, that "here I had 
no continuing city ;" and but for the consolation 
of a few solid guineas, could almost lament the 
time that a momentary acquaintance with wealth 
and splendour put me so much out of conceit 
with the sworn companions of my road through 
life — insignificance and poverty. 

There are few circumstances relating to the 
anequal distribution of the good things of this 
life that give me more vexation (I mean in what 
1 se'a around me) than the importance the 
cpulent bestow on their trifling family affairs, 
compared with the very same things on the con- 
tracted scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I had 
the honour to spend an hour or two at a good 
^(roman's fireside, where the planks that com- 
posed the floor were decorated with a splendid 
carpet, and the gay table sparkled with silver 
and china. 'Tis now about term-day, and there 
las bee^ a revolution among those creaturea; 



who though in appearance partakers, aad equallj 
noble partakers, of the same nature with Ma- 
dame, are from time to time — their nerves, 
their sinews, their health, strength, wisdom, 
experience, genius, time, nay a good part of 
their very thoughts — sold for months and years, 
not only to the necessities, the conveniencies, 
but, the caprices of the important few. Wfl 
talked of the insignificant creatures ; nay, not- 
withstanding their general stupidity and ras- 
cality, did some of the poor devils the honour to 
commend them. But light be the turf upon hia 
breast who taught "Reverence thyself!" We 
looked down on the unpolished wretches, thei* 
impertinent wives and clouterly brats, as the 
lordly bull does on the little dirty ant-hill, whose 
puny inhabitants he crushes in the carelessness 
of his ramble, or tosses in the air in the wanton- 
ness of his pride. R. B. 



CXXII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

AT MR. BUNLOP'S, HADDINGTON- 

[In this, the poet's first letter from Ellisland, he lay 
down his whole system of in-door and out-door economy 
while his wife took care of the household, he was to 
manage the farm, and " pen a stanza" during his houra 
of leisure.] 

Ellisland, IZth June, 1788. 

"Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, 
My heart, unti-avell'd, fondly turns to thee ; 
Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain. 
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain." 

Goldsmith. 

This is the second day, my honoured friend, 
that I have been on my farm. A solitary in- 
mate of an old smoky spense ; far from every 
object I love, or by whom I am beloved ; nor 
any acquaintance older than yesterday, except 
Jenny Geddes, the old mare I ride on ; whilt 
uncouth cares and novel plans hourly insult my 
awkward ignorance and bashful inexperience. 
There is a foggy atmosphere native to my soa2 
in the hour of care ; consequently the dreary 
objects seem larger than the life. Extreme 
sensibility, irritated and prejudiced on the 
gloomy side by a series of misfortunes and dis- 
appointments, at that period of my existence 
when the soul is laying in her cargo of ideas for 
the voyage of life, is, I believe, «the principal 
cause of this unhappy frame of mind. 



OF EGBERT BURNS 



381 



'Th« valiant, in himaelf, what can he suffer? 
Or what need he regard his single woes?" &c. 

Your surmise, Mndam, is just ; I am indeed 
% husband. 

•Sfr 45- -X- * 

To iealousy or infidelity I am an equal stran- 
ger. My preservative from the first is the most 
khoTough consciousness of her sentiments of 
honour, and her attachment to me: my antidote 
against the last i? my long and deep-rooted affec- 
tdon for her. 

In housewife matters, of aptness to learn and 
activity to execute, she is eminently mistress; 
and during my absence in Nithsdale, she is re- 
gularly and constantly apprentice to my mo- 
ther and sisters in their daijy and other rural 
business. 

The muses must not be offended when I tell 
them, the concerns of my wife and family will, 
in my mind, always take the pas ; but I assure 
them their ladyships will ever come next in 
place. 

You are r:ght that a bachelor state would have 
insured me more friends ; but, from a cause you 
will easily guess, conscious peace in the enjoy- 
ment of my own mind, and unmistrusting con- 
fidence in approaching my God, would seldom 
have been of the number. 

I found a once much-loved and still much- 
loved female, literally and truly cast out to the 
mercy of the naked elements; but I enabled 
her io purchase a shelter; — there is no sporting 
with a fellow-creature's happiness or misery. 

The most placid good-nature and sweetness 
of disposition; a warm heart, gratefully de- 
voted with all its powers to love me ; vigorous 
health and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the 
best advantage by a more than commonly hand- 
some figure; these, I think, in a woman, may 
make a good wife, though she should never 
have read a page but the Scriptures of the Old 
und New Testament, nor have danced in a 
brighter assembly than a penny pay-wedding. 

R. B. 



cxxin, 
TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

[Had B'iniB written his fine song, beginning "Con- 
tented wi' little and cantie wi' main" when he penned 
Jhii letter, the prose might have followed as a note to 
■ue X9TS9 he ''alls the Excise a luxury.] 



Ellisland, June 14ih, 1788. 

This is now the third day, my dearest Sir, 
that I have sojourned in these regions; and 
during these three days you have occupied mori 
of my thoughts than in three weeks preceding : 
in Ayrshire I have several variations of friend 
ship's compass, here it points invariably to th« 
pole. My farm gives me a good many uncouta 
cares and anxieties, but I hate the language v 
complaint. Job, or some one of his friends 
says well — "why should a living man com 
plain?" 

I have lately been much mortified with con 
templating an unlucky imperfection in the very 
framing and construction of my soul ; namely, 
a blundering inaccuracy of her olfactory organs 
in hitting the scent of craft or design in my fel- 
low-creatures. I do not mean any compliment 
to my ingenuousness, or to hint that the defect 
is in consequence of the unsuspicious simplicity 
of conscious truth and honour : I take it to be, 
in some way or other, an imperfection in the 
mental sight ; or, metaphor apart, some modi- 
fication of dulness. In two or three small in- 
stances lately, I have been most shamefully 
out. 

I have all along hitherto, in the warfare of 
life, been bred to arms among the light-horse — • 
the piquet-guards of fancy ; a kind of hussara 
and Highlanders of the brain; but I am firmly 
resolved to sell out of these giddy battalions, 
who have no ideas of a battle but fighting the 
foe, or of a siege but storming the town. Cost 
what it will, I am determined to buy in among 
the grave squadrons of heavy-armed thought, of 
the artillery corps of plodding contrivance. 

What books are you reading, or what is the 
subject of your thoughts, besides the great stu- 
dies of your profession? You said something 
about religion in your last. I don't exactly re- 
member what it was, as the letter is in Ayr™ 
shire ; but I thought it not only prettily said, 
but nobly thought. You will make a noble fel- 
low if once you were married. I make no i eser • 
vation of your being well-married: you have so 
much sense, and knowledge of human nature, 
that though you may not realize perhaps the 
ideas of romance, yet you will never be ill-mar- 
ried. 

Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish situ- 
ation respecting provision for a family of chil- 
dren, I am decidedly of opinion that the step 1 
I have taken is vastly for my happiness. As it is, 



382 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



I look to the Excise spheme as a certainty of 
maintenance ! — luxury to what either Mrs. Burns 
or I were born to. 

Adieu. 

R. B. 



CXXIV. 
TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

[Tie kliidnpss of Field, the profilist, has not only in- 
dulged me with a look at the original, from which the 
profile alluded to in the letter was taken, but has put me 
in possession of a capital copy.] 

Mauchline, 2Zd June, 1788. 
This letter, my dear Sir, is only a business 
(Scrap. Mr. Miers, profile painter in your town, 
iias executed a profile of Dr. Blacklock for me : 
do me the favour to call for it, and sit to him 
yourself for me, which put in the same size as 
the doctor's. The account of both profiles will 
be fifteen shillings, which I have given to James 
Connell, our Mauchline carrier, to pay you when 
you give him the parcel. You must not, my 
friend, refuse to sit. The time is short : when I 
Bat to Mr. Miers, I am sure he did not exceed 
two minutes. I propose hanging Lord Glencairn, 
the Doctor, and you in trio over my new chim- 
ney-piece that is to be. 

Adieu. 

R. B. 



CXXV. 
TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

•■" There is a degree of folly," says Burns in this let- 
ter, *' in talking unnecessarily of one's private affairs." 
The folly is scarcely less to write about them, and much 
did tbe pest acd his friend write about their own private 
sfiairs em t?11 as those of others.] 

Ellisland, June SOth, 1788. 
M? aEAR Sir, 

i jusi now received your brief epistle ; and, 
k take vengeance on your laziness, I have, you 
»?e, takea a long sheet of writing-paper, and 
have begun at the top of the page, intending to 
scribble on to the very last corner. 

I am vexed at that aflFair of the * * *, but 
dare not enlarge on the subject until you send 
ttie your direction, as I suppose that will be al- 
tered on your late master and friend's death. I 



am concerned for the old fellow's exit, only at 
I fear it may be to your disadvantage in any 
respect — for an old man's dying, except he haf 
been a very benevolent character, or in som< 
particular situation of life that the welfare 
of the poor or the helpless depended on him, 
I think it an event of the most trifling moment 
in the world. Man is naturally a kind, benevo- 
lent animal, but he is dropped into such a needy 
situation here in this vexatious world, and bag 
such a whoreson hungry, growling, multiplying 
pack of necessities, appetites, passions, and 
desires about him, ready to devour him for 
want of other food ; that in fact he must lay 
aside his cares for others that he may look pro- 
perly to himself. You have been imposed upon 
in paying Mr. Miers for the profile of a Mr. H. 
I did not mention it in my letter to you^ noi 
did I ever give Mr. Miers any such order. 1 
have no objection to lose the money, but I will 
not have any such profile in my possession. 

I desired the carrier to pay you, but as I men 
tioned only fifteen shillings to him, I would ra- 
ther enclose you a guinea note. I have it not, 
indeed, to spare here, as I am only a sojourner 
in a strange land in this place ; but in a day or 
two I return to Mauchline, and there 1 have 
the bank-notes through the house like salt per- 
mits. 

There is a great degree of folly in talking un- 
necessarily of one's private aflTairs. I have just 
now been interrupted by one of my new neigh- 
bours, who has made himself absolutely con 
temptible in my eyes, by his silly garrulous pru 
riency. I know it has been a fault of my own, 
too; but from this moment I abjure it, as I 
would the service of hell ! Your poets, spend 
thrifts, and other fools of that kidney, pretend 
forsooth to crack their jokes on prudence ; but 
'tis a squalid vagabond glorying in his rags. 
Still, imprudence respecting money matters is 
much more pardonable than imprudence respect^ 
ing character. I have no objection to prefof 
prodigality to avarice, in some few instances; 
but I appeal to your observation, if you have 
not met, and often met, with the same disingenu- 
ousness, the same hollow-hearted insincerity, 
and disintegritive depravity of principle, in the 
hackneyed victims of profusion, as in the un- 
feeling children of parsimony. I have every 
possible reverence for the much-talked-of world 
beyond the grave, and I wish that which piety 
believes, and virtue deserves, may be all raattei 
of fact. But in things l,*>longiiig to, and ter« 



minating 12 this present scene of existence, man 
has serious and interesting business on hand. 
Whether a man shall shake hands with welcome 
In the distinguished elevation of respect, or 
•shrink from contempt in the abject corner of in- 
eignificance ; whether he shall wanton under the 
tropic of plenty, at least enjoy himself in the 
«omfortable latitudes of easy convenience, or 
itarve in the arctic circle of dreary poverty; 
whether he shall rise in the manly consciousness 
of a self-approving mind, or sink beneath a gall- 
ing load of regret and remorse — these are alter- 
natives of the last moment. 

You see how I preach. You used occasion- 
ally to sermonize too ; I wish you would, in 
charity, favour me with a sheet full in your 
own way. I admire the close of a letter Lord 
Bolingbroke writes to Dean Swift: — "Adieu 
dear Swift ! with all thy faults I love thee en- 
tirely : make an effort to loi;e me with all 
mine !" Humble servant, and all that trumpery, 
is now such a prostituted busimess, that honest 
friendship, in her sincere way, must have re- 
course to her primitive, simple, — farewell ! 

R. B. 



CXXVI. 

TO MR. GEORGE LOCKHART, 

MERCHANT, GLASGOW. 

[Bume, more than any poet of the age, loved to 
write out : spies of his favourite pooms, and present them 
to his frienda : he sent <' The Falls of Bruar" to Mr. 
Lockhart.] 

Mauchline, ISth July, 1788. 
My dear Sir, 

I AM just going for Nithsdale, else I would 
oprlain'.f have transcribed some of my rhyming 
things fc* you. The Miss Baillies I have seen 
Id Edinburgh. " Fair and lovely are thy works, 
Lord God Almighty! Who would not praise 
th*^ for these thy gifts in thy goodness to the 
80E9 of men !" It needed not your fine taste to 
admire them. I declare, one day I had the 
honour of dining at Mr. Baillie's, I was almost 
In the predicament of the children of Israel, 
vvhen they could not look on Moses' face for the 
glory that shone in it when he descended from 
Mount Sinai. 

I did once write a poetic address from the 
Falls of Bruar to his Grace of Athole, ^hen I 



was in the Highlands. When you return to 
Scotland, let me know, and I will send such of 
my pieces as please myself best. I return to 
Mauchline in about ten days. 

My compliments to Mr. Purdon. I am in 
truth, but at present in haste, 

Yours,~R B. 



cxxvn. 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 

[Peter Hill was a bookseller in Edinburgh : David Ram 
say, printer of the Evening Courant : William Dunbar^ 
an advocate, and president of a club of Edinburgh wits' 
and Alexander Cunningham, a jeweller, who loved miitli 
and wine .] 

My DEAR Hill, 

I SHALL say nothing to your mad present— 
you have so long and often been of important 
service to me, and I suppose you mean to go on 
conferring obligations until I shall not be able 
to lift up my face before you. In the mean 
time, as Sir Roger de Coverley, because it hap- 
pened to be a cold day in which he m.ade his 
will, ordered his servants great coats for mourn- 
ing, so, because I have been this week plagued 
with an indigestion, I have sent you by the 
carrier a fine old ewe-milk cheese. 

Indigestion is the devil: nay, 'tis the devil 
and all. It besets a nian in every one of hig 
senses. I lose my appetite at the sight of suc- 
cessful knavery, and sicken to loathing at the 
noise and nonsense of self-important folly. 
When the hollow-hearted wretch takes me by 
the hand, the feeling spoils my dinner : the 
proud man's wine so offends my palate that i« 
chokes me in the gullet ; and the pulvilised^ 
feathered, pert coxcomb is so disgustful n my 
nostril that my stomach turns 

If ever you have any of these disagreeable 
sensations, let me prescribe for you patienc? 
and a bit of my cheese. I know that you an 
no niggard of your good things amcng yotu 
friends, and some of them are in much need of 
a slice. There, in my eye is our friend Smol- 
lie ; annan positively of the first abilities and 
greatest strength of mind, as well as one of 
the best hearts and keenest wits that I have 
ever met with ; when you see him, as, alas' he 
too is smarting at the pinch of distressful cir- 
cumstances, aggravated by the sneer of cont&- 
melioufi greatness — a bit of my cheese alone a-»II 



B84 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



not cure him, but if you add a tankard of brown 
stout, and superadd a magnum of right Oporto, 
you will see his sorrows vanish like the morning 
mist before the summer sun. 

Candlish, the earliest friend, except my only 
Drother, that I have on earth, and one of the 
worthiest fellows that ever any man called by 
tie name of friend, if a luncheon of my cheese 
sirouid help to rid him of some of his super- 
abac dant modesty, you would do well to give it 
aim. 

David, ^ with his Courant, comes, too, across 
my recollection, and I beg you will help him 
largely from the said ewe-milk cheese, to enable 
him to digest those bedaubing paragraphs with 
which he is eternally larding the lean characters 
of certain great men in a certain great town. I 
grant you the periods are very well turned ; so, 
a fresh egg is a very good thing, but when thrown 
at a man in a pillory, it does not at all improve 
his figure, not to mention the irreparable loss 
of the egg. 

My facetious friend Dunbar I would wish also 
to be a partaker : not to digest his spleen, for 
that he laughs off, but to digest his last night's 
wine at the last field-day of the Crochallan 
corps.2 

Among our common friends I must not forget 
one of the dearest of them — Cunningham. The 
brutality, insolence, and selfishness of a world 
unworthy of having such a fellow as he is in it, 
I know sticks in his stomach, and if you can help 
him to anything that will make him a little easier 
on that score, it will be very obliging. 

As to honest J S e, he is such a 

contented, happy man, that I know not what 
can annoy him, except, perhaps, he may not 
have got the better of a parcel of modest anec- 
dotes which a certain poet gave him one night at 
Bupper, the last time the said poet was in town. 

Though I have mentioned so many men of law, 
1 shall have nothing to do with them professedly 
— the faculty are beyond my prescription. As 
to their clients, that is another thing; God knows 
they have much to digest ! 

The clergy I pass by; their profundity of 
crulition, and their liberality of sentiment; 
their total want of pride, and their detestation 
of hypocrisy, are so proverbially notorious as 
to place them far, far above either my praise or 
censure. 

' Printe'" of the Edinburgh Evening Courant. 
* h. cluo of choice spirits. 



I was going to mention a man of worth whow 
I have the honour to call friend, the Laird of 
Craigdarroch ; but I have spoken to the landlord 
of the King's- Arms inn here, to have at the next 
county meeting a large ewe-milk cheese on the 
table, for the benefit of the Dumfries-shire Whig», 
to enable them to digest the Duke of Queuns* 
berry's late political conduct. 

I have just this moment an oppori:,unity of a 
private hand to Edinburgh, as perhaps you would 
not digest double postage. R. B. 



cxxvni. 

. TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., 

OF FINTRAT. 

[The filial and fraternal claims alluded to in this letter 
were satisfied with about three hundred pounds, two hun- 
dred of which went to his brother Gilbert — a sura ^vhich 
made a sad inroad on the money arising from the jsocond 
edition of his Poems.] 

Sir, 

When I had the honour of being introduced 
to you at Athole-house, I did not think so soon 
of asking a favour of you. When Lear, in 
Shakspeare, asked Old Kent why he wished to 
be in his service, he answers, "Because you 
have that in your face which I would fain call 
master." For some such reason. Sir, do I now 
solicit your patronage. You know, I dare say, 
of an application I lately made to your Board to 
be admitted an officer of Excise. I have, ac- 
cording to form, been examined by a supervisor, 
and to-day I gave in his certificate, with a re- 
quest for an order for instructions. In this 
affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall but too 
much need a patronizing friend. Propriety of 
conduct as a man, and fidelity and attention aa 
an officer, I dare engage for ; but with anything 
like business, except manual labour, I am to- 
tally unacquainted, 

I had intended to have closed my late appear- 
ance on the stage of life, in the character of a 
country farmer; but after discharging some 
filial and fraternal claims, I find I could only 
fight for existence in that miserable manner, 
which I have lived to see throw a venerable 
parent into the jaws of a jail, whence death, 
the poor m >n's last and often best friend, rescued 
him. 



OF HvOBERT BUIi:^S. 



885 



I know, Sir, that to need your goodness, is to 
have a claim on it ; may I, therefore, beg your 
patronage to forward me in this affair, till I be 
appointed to a division ; where, by the help of 
rigid economy, I will try to support that inde- 
pendence so J«ar to my soul, but which has been 
y)o often so distant from my situation. 

R. B. 



CXXIX. 
TO WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. 

[ Die verses which this letter conveyed to Cruikshank 
«rere the lines written in Friars-Carse Hermitage: '* the 
Srst-fruits," says the poet, elsewhere, "of my inter- 
course with the Nithsdale muse."] 

EUisland, August, 1788. 

I HAVE not room, my dear friend, to answer 
all the particulars of your last kind letter. I 
shall be in Edinburgh on some business very 
soon ; and as I shall be two days, or perhaps 
three, in town, we shall discuss matters vivd. 
voce. My knee, I believe, will never be entirely 
well ; and an unlucky fall this winter has made 
•t still worse. I well remember the circum- 
stance you allude to, respecting Creech's opinion 
of Mr. Nicol ; but, as the first gentleman owes 
me still about fifty pounds, I dare not meddle 
in the affair. 

It gave me a very heavy heart to read such 
accounts of the consequence of your quarrel 
with that puritanic, rotten-hearted, hell-com- 
missioned scoundrel A . If, notwith- 
standing your unprecedented industry in public, 
and your irreproachable conduct in private 
:ife, he dtill has you so much in his power, what 
ruin mav he not bring on some others I could 
name ? 

Many and happy returns of seasons to you, 
with your dearest and worthiest friend, and the 
lovely little pledge of your happy union. May 
the great Author of life, and of every enjoyment 
that can render life delightful, make her that 
comfortable blessing to you both, which you so 
ardently wish for, and which, allow me to say, 
you so well deserve ! Glance over the foregoing 
rerflof, and let me have your blots. 

Adieu. 

R. B. 



OfS 



cxxx. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[The lines on the Hermitage were presented by thfi 
poet to several of his friends, and Mrs. Dunlop wau 
among the number.] 

Mauchline, August 2, 1788. 
Honoured Madam, 

Your kind letter welcomed me, yesternight, 
to Ayrshire. I am, indeed, seriously angry 
with you at the quantum of your luckpenny ; 
but, vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help 
laughing very heartily at the noble lord's apo- 
logy for the missed napkin. 

I would write you from Nithsdale, and give 
you my direction there, but I have scarce an 
opportunity of calling at a post-office once in a 
fortnight. I am six miles ^rom Dumfries, am 
scarcely ever in it myseif, and, as yet, have 
little acquaintance in the neighbourhood. Be- 
sides, I am now very busy on my farm, building 
a dwelling-house ; as at present I am almost an 
evangelical man in Nithsdale, for I have scarce 
" where to lay my head." 

There are some passages in your last that 
brought tears in my eyes. "The heart knoweth 
its own sorrows, and a stranger intermeddleth 
not therewith." The lepository of these " sor 
rows of the heart" is a kind of sanctum, sancto- 
rum: and 'tis only a chosen friend, and th&», 
toQ, at particular sacred times, who dares enler 
into them : — 

" Heaven oft tears the bosom-chordp 
That nature finest strung." 

You will excuse this quotation for the sake 
of the author. Instead of entering on this sub 
ject farther, I shall transcribe you a few linec 
I wrote in a hermitage, belonging to a gentle 
man in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. They 
are almost the only favours the muses have cod- 
ferred on me in that country : — 

Thou whom chance may hither lead ' 

Since I am in the way of transcribing, ine 
following were the production of yesterday as 
I jogged through the wild hills of New Cum- 
nock. I intend inserting them, or something 
like them, in an epistle I am going to write to 
the gentleman on whose friendship my Excise 
hopes depend, Mr. Graham, of Fintray, one of 

1 See Poems LXXXIX and XC 



§^6 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



the worthiest and most accomplished' gentlemen 
Got only of this country, ^ut, I will dare to say 
it, of this age. The following are just the first 
crude tho^xghts " unhousel'd, unanointed, unan- 
aeul'd •"— 

Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train ; 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main: 
The world were blest, did bliss on them depend; 
Ah, that 'Hhe friendly e'er should want a 

friend !" 
The little fate bestows they share as soon ; 
Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung 

boon. 
Let Prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; 
Who feel by reason and who give by rule ; 
Instinct's a brute and sentiment a fool! 
Who mak*; poor will do wait upon I should ; 
We own they're prudent, but who owns they're 

good ? 

ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ; 
3od's image rudely etch'd on base alloy! 
But come * * -k- * * -x- 

Here the muse left me. I am astonished at 
^hat you tell me of Anthony's writing me. I 
never received it. Poor fellow ! you vex me 
much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I 
shall be in Ayrshire ten days from this date. I 
have just room for an old Roman farewell. , 

R. B. 



CXXXI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[Tins etter has been o' en cited, and very proper y, aa 
k proof of thf strong attachment of Burns to ons who 
w©» iu insny respects, worthy.] 

Mauchlinf, August 10, 1788. 
Mi much HONorRED Friend, 

Yours of the 24th June is before me. I found 
It, as well as another valued friend — my wife, 
waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire: I met both 
frith the sincerest pleasure. 

When I write you. Madam, I do not sit down 
cc answer every paragraph of yours, by echoing 
every sentiment, like the faithful Commons of 
Great Britain in Parliament assembled, an- 
iwerin^ a sj eech from the best of kings ! I ex- 



press myself in the fulness of my heart, and 
may, perhaps, be guilty of neglecting some of 
your kind inquiries ; but not from your very 
old reason, that I do not read your letters. All 
your epistles for several months have cost me 
nothing, except a swelling throb of gratitude, 
or a deep-felt sentiment of veneration. 

When Mrs. Burns, Madam, first found her- 
self " as women wish to be who lOve theii 
lords," as I loved her nearly to distraction, we 
took steps for a private marriage. Her parents 
got the hint ; and not only forbade me her com- 
pany and their house, but, on my rumoured 
West Indian voyage, got a warrant to put me 
in jail, till I should find security in my about- 
to-be paternal relation. You know my lucky 
reverse of fortune. On my eclatant return to 
Mauchline, I was made very welcome to visit 
my girl. The usual consequences began to be- 
tray her ; and, as I was at that time laid up a 
cripple in Edinburgh, she was turned, literally 
turned out of doors, and I wrote to a friend to 
shelter her till my return, when our marriage 
was declared. Her happiness or misery were 
in my hands, and who could trifle with snch a 
deposit ? 

I can easily fancy a more agreeable compa- 
nion for my journey of life ; but, upon my 
honour, I have never seen the individual in* 
stance. 

Circumstanced as I am, I could never have 
got a female partner for life, who could have 
entered into my favourite studies, relished my 
favourite authors, &c., without probably entail- 
ing on me at the same time expensive living, 
fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affectation, with 
all the other blessed boarding-schoo^. acquire- 
ments, which [pardonnez mot, Madame.^ are 
sometimes to be found among females of the 
upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the 
misses of the would-be gentry. 

I like your way in your church-yard lucubra- 
tions. Thoughts that are the spontaneous reoull 
of accidental situations, either respecting health, 
place, or company, have often a strength, and 
always an originality, that would in vain be 
looked for in fancied circumstances and studied 
paragraphs. For me, I have often thought of 
keeping a letter, in progression by me, to send 
you when the sheet was written out. Now 1 
talk of sheets, I must tell you, my reason for 
writing to you on paper of this kind is my pru- 
riency of writing to you at large. A page of 
post is on such a diBsoci&!, narrow-minded seal* 



U- 



OF ROBEKT BUKNS. 



881 



ji&i I cannot abide it; and double letters, at 
least in my miscellaneous revery manner, are a 
monstrous tax in a close correspondence. 

R. B. 



CXXXII. 
TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

[Airs. Muler, of Dalswinton, was a lady of beauty and 
tal«nt: she wrote verses with skill and taste. Her maiden 
uame was Jean Lindsay.] 

Ellisland, 16th August, 1788. 
I AM in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, 
to send you an elegiac epistle ; and want only 
f enius to make it quite Shenstonian : — 

<' Why droops ray heart with fancied woes forlorn ? 
Why sinks ray soul, beneath each wintry sky?" 

My increasing cares in this, as yet strange 
country - gloomy conjectures in the dark vista 
of futurity — consciousness of my own^inability 
for the struggle of the world — my broadened 
mark to misfortune in a wife and children; — I 
could indulge these reflections till my humour 
should ferment into the most acid chagrin, that 
would corrode the very thread of life. 

To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have 
sat down to write to you ; as I declare upon 
my soul I always find that the most sovereign 
balm for my wounded spirit. 

I was yesterday f>t Air. Miller's to dinner for 
the first time. IVtv rtiception was quite to my 
mind : from the Jpciy of the house quite flatter- 
ing. She someUiaes hits on a couplet or two, 
impromptu. She repeated one or two to the ad- 
miration of all present. My suff"rage as a pro- 
fessional man, was expected : I for once went 
Agonizing over the belly of my conscience. T>nv- 
don me, ye my p.dored household gods, inde- 
pendence of spirit, and integrity of soul ! In the 
course of conversation, "Johnson's Musical 
Museum," a collection of Scottish songs with 
Ibe music, was talked of. We got a song on 
the harpsichord, beginning, 

" Raving winds ar-uad her blowing." i 
The air was much admired : the Jady of the 
honse asked me whose were the words. " Mine, 
Ma/^iam — they are indeed my very best verses;" 
ihe took not the srjallest notice of them ! The 
»ld Scottish prcv'evb says well, «' king's caff is 



f te S:.ng LII. 



better than ither folks' corn." I was going ti 
make a New Testament quotation about *' cast 
ing pearls" but that would be too virulent, foi 
the lady is actually a woman of sense and 
taste. 

After all that has been said on the other side 
of the question, man is by no means a happy 
creature. I do not speak of the selected few, 
favoured by partial heaven, whose souls ara 
tuned to gladness amid riches and honours, and 
prudence and wisdom. I speak of the neglected 
many, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose days 
are sold to the minions of fortune. 

If I thought you had never seen it, I would 
transcribe for you a stanza of an old Scottish 
ballad, called, "The Life and Age of Man;" 
beginning thus : 

" 'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year 
Of God and fifty-three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 
As writings testifie." 

I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mO' 
ther lived awhile in her girlish years ; the good 
old man, for such he was, was long blind ere he 
died, during which time his highest enjoyment 
was to sit down and cry, while my mother would 
sing the simple old song of " the Life and Age 
of Man." 

It is this way of thinking ; it is these melan- 
choly truths, that make religion so precious to 
the poor, miserable children of men. — If it is a 
mere phantom, existing only in the heated ima 
gination of enthusiasm, ~ 

" What truth on earth so precious as a lie." 

My idle reasonings sometimes make me a 
little sceptical, but the necessities of my heart 
always give the cold philpsophisings the 'ie. 
Who looks for the heart weaned from earth ; 
the soul affianced to her God ; the correspond- 
ence fixed with heaven ; the pious supplication 
and devout thanksgiving, constant as the vicis- 
situdes of even and morn ; who thinks to meet 
with these in the court, the palace, in the glare 
of public life? No: to find them in their pre- 
cious importance and divine efficacy, we must 
search among the obscure recesses of disappoint 
ment, affliction, poverty, and distress. 

I am sure, dear Madam, you are now moie 
than pleased with the length of my letters. 1 
return to Ayrshire middle of next week : and i1 
quickens my pace to think that there will 
be a letter from you waiting me there. I 
must be here again very soon for my harvest. 

R. B 



t$88 



GENERAL COERESPONUENCE 



CXXXIII. 
TOME. BEUGO, 

ENGRATER, EDINBURGH. 

''M.I. Beugo was a Aveh-kr wn engraver in Edinburgh : 
foe engraved J\astt>»'*^h's port, lit of Uarns, for Creech's 
Iret edition of his i*oams ; and as he could draw a little, 
IS imoroved, as he called it, the engraving from sittings 
>f the poet, diKi made it a little more like, and a little 
(e«» poetic] 

Ellisland, 9th Sept. 1788. 
My dear Sir, 

There is not in Edinburgh above the number 
of the graces whose letters would have given me 
so much pleasure as yours of the 3d instant, 
which only reached me yesternight. 

I am here on the farm, busy with my harvest ; 
but for all that most pleasurable part of life 
flailed SOCIAL communication, I am here at the 
very elbow of existence. The only things that 
are to be found in this country, in any degree 
of perfection, are stupidity and canting. Prose 
they only know in graces, prayers, &c., and the 
value of these they estimate as they do their 
plaiding webs — by the ell ! As for the muses, 
tJiey have as much an idea of a rhinoceros as 
of a poet. For my old capricious but good- 
aatured huzzy of a muse — 

<' By banks of Nith I sat and wept 

When Coila I thought on. 
In midst thereof I hung my harp 

The willow-trees upon." 

I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire 
with my "darling Jean," and then I, at lucid 
intervals, throw my horny fist across my becob- 
webbed lyre, much in the same manner as an 
old wife throws her hand across the spokes of 
her spinning-wheel. 

I will send you the " Fortunate Shepherdess" 
as soon as I return to Ayrshire, for there I keep 
it with other precious treasure. I shall send 
it by a careful har.d, as I would not for any- 
thing It should be mislaid or lost. I do not 
W^ish to serve you from any benevolence, or 
other grave Christian virtue; 'tis purely a sel- 
fish gratification of my own feelings whenever I 
think of you. 

If your better functions would give you lei' 
sure to write me, I should be extremely happy; 
that is to say if you neither keep nor look for 
« regular correspondence. I hate he idea of 
being obliged to write a letter. I sometimes 
write a friend twice a week, at othel times once 
a quarter. 



I am exceedingly pleased with your fancy il 
making the author you mention place a map of 
Iceland instead of his portrait before his works -. 
'twas a glorious idea. 

Could you conveniently do me one thing?-* 
whenever you finish any head I should like to 
have a proof copy of it. I might tell you a 
long story about your fine genius; but as what 
everybody knows cannot have escaped you, 1 
shall not say one syllable about it. 

R. B. 



CXXXIV. 

. TO MISS CHALMERS, 

EDINBURGH. 

[To this fine letter all the biographers of Bums ar« 
largely indebted.] 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, Sept. IQth, 1788. 
Where are you? and how are you? and is 
Lady Mackenzie recovering her health ? for I 
have had but one solitary letter from you. I 
will not think you have forgot me. Madam ; and 
for my part — 

" When thee, Jerusalem, I forget, 
Skill part from my right hand "' 

" My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul 
careless as that sea." I do not make my pro* 
gress among mankind as a bowl does among itf 
fellows — rolling through the crowd without bear- 
ing away any mark of impression, except where 
they hit in hostile collision. 

I am here, driven in with my harvest-folk? 
by bad weather ; and as you and your sister 
once did me the honour of interesting your- 
selves much d, Vegard de moi, I sit down to beg 
the continuation of your goodness. I can truly 
say that, all the exterior of life apart, I never 
saw two, whose esteem flattered the nobler feel- 
ings of my soul — I will not say more, but so 
much as Lady Mackenzie and Miss Chalmers. 
When I think of you — hearts the best, minds 
the noblest of human kind — unfortunate even 
in the shades of life — when I think I have met 
with you, and have lived more of real life with 
you in eight days than I can do with almost any 
body I meet with in eight years — when I think 
on the improbability of meeting you in this 
world again — I could sit down and cry like a 
child! If ever you honoured me with a place 
in your esteem, I trust I can now plead more 



OF ROBEKT BUllJS'iS. 



'6H\i 



iesert. I am secure against that crusliing grip 
of iron poverty, whicb, alas ! is less or more 
fatal to the native worth and purity of, I fear, 
the noblest souls; and a late important step in 
my life has kindly taken me out of the way of 
those ungrateful iniquities, which, however over- 
looked in fashionable license, or varnished in 
fashionable phrase, are indeed but lighter and 
deeper shades of villant. 

Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, I 
\uarried "my Jean." This was not in conse- 
ciuence of the attachment of romance, perhaps ; 
but I had a long and much-loved fellow-crea- 
ture's happiness or misery in my determina- 
ion, and I durst not trifle with so important a 
ieposit. Nor have I any cause to repent it. If 
t have not got polite tattle, modish manners, 
ind lashionable dress, I am not sickened and 
nsgusted with the multiform curse of board- 
tog-school affectation: and I have got thehand- 
§omest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest 
jonstitution, and the kindest heart in the county. 
Mrs. Barns believes, as firmly as her creed, that 
t am le plus bel esprit^ et leplus honnete homme in 
the universe ; although she scarcely ever in her 
life, except the Scriptures of the Old and New 
Testament, and the Psalms of David in metre, 
spent five minutes together either on prose or 
vevsQ. I must except also from this last a cer- 
tain late publication of Scots poems, which she 
has perused very devoutly ; and all the ballads 
m the country, as she has (0 the partial lover ! 
y^ou will cry) the finest " wood-note wild" I 
ever heard. I am the more particular in this 
lady's character, as I know she will henceforth 
have the honour of a share in your best wishes. 
Bhe is still at Mauchline, as I am building my 
Jiouse ; for this hovel that I shelter in, while 
occasionally here, is pervious to every blast that 
blows, and every shower that falls ; and I am 
only preserved from being chilled to death by 
being suffocated with smoke. I do not find my 
farm that pennyworth I was taught to expect, 
but I believe, in time, it may be a saving bar- 
£^ain. You will be pleased to hear that I have 
laid aside idle eclat, and bind every day after 
my reapers. 

To save me from that horrid situation of at 
any time going down in a losing bargain of a 
farm, to misery, I have taken my Excise in- 
structions, and have my commission in my 
Docket for any emergency of fortune. If I 
fould set all before your view, whatever disre- 
ipect you, in common with the world, have for 



this business, I know you would approve of mj 
idea. 

I will make no ap Dlogy, dear Madam, for thi4 
egotistic detail; I know you and your sistoi 
will be interested in every circumstance of it. 
What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, 
or the ideal trumpery of greatness ! When fel 
low-partakers of the same nature fear the same 
God, have the same benevolence of heart, tL< 
same nobleness of soul, the same dotestatiou ai 
everything dishonest, and the same scorn at 
everything unworthy — if they are not in the 
dependence of absolute beggary, in the name 
of common sense are they not equals ? And if 
the bias, the instinctive bias, of their souls run 
the same way, why may they not be friends ? 

When I may have an opportunity of sending 
you this, Heaven only knows. Shenstone says, 
" When one is confined idle within doors by bad 
weather, the best antidote against eiinui is to 
read the letters of or write to, one's friends ;" in 
that case then, if the weather continues thus, 
I may scrawl you half a quire. 

I very lately — to wit, since harvest began — 
wrote a poem, not in imitation, but in the man- 
ner, of Pope's Moral Epistles. It is only a short 
essay, just to try the strength of my muse'a 
pinion in that way. I will send you a copy of 
it, when once I have heard from you, I have 
likewise been laying the foundation of some 
pretty large poetic works : how the superstruc 
ture will come on, I leave to that great maker 
and marrer of projects — time. Johnson's col- 
lection of Scots songs is going on in the third 
volume ; and, of consequence, finds me a con- 
sumpt for a great deal of idle metre. One of 
the most tolerable things I have done in that 
way is two stanzas I made to an air, a musical 
gentleman of my acquaintance composed for 
the anniversary of his wedding-day, which hap- 
pens on the seventh of November. Take it ai 
follows : — 

" The day returns — my bosom burns. 
The blissful day we twa did meet," &o.' 

I shall give over this letter for shame. If i 
should be seized with a scribbling fit, oefore 
this goes away, I shall make it another letter-, 
and then you may allow your patience a week'i 
respite between the two. I have not room foi 
more than the old, kind, hearty farewell. 



Sonfi: LXIX. 



S9t 



GENERAL COKRESPONDENOE 



To make some amends, mes cJilres Mesdames, 
for dragging you on to this second sheet, and 
to relieve a little the tiresomeness of my unstu- 
died and uncorrectible prose, I Sh:ill transcribe 
you some of my late poetic bagatelles ; though 
I have, these eight or ten months, done very 
little that way. One day in a hermitage on 
the banks of Nith, belonging to a gentleman in 
my neighbourhood, who is so good as give me a 
key at pleasure, I wrote as follows ,• supposing 
myself the sequestered, venerable inhabitant of 
ths lonely mansion. 

LINES WKITTEN IN FK.IA R S-C All S E 
HERMITAGE. 

** Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed."* 

R. B. 



CXXXV. 
TO MR. MORISON, 

MAUCHLINE. 

[Morison, of Mauchline, made most of the poet's fur- 
Biture, for Ellisland : from Mauchline, too, came that 
»ight-day clock, which was sold, at the death of the 
poet's widow, for thirty-eight pounds, to one who would 
have paid one hundred, sooner than wanted it.] 

Ellisland, September 22, 1788. 
My dear Sir, 
Necessity obliges me to go into my new house 
even before it be plastered. I will inhabit the 
one end until the other is finished. About three 
weeks more, I think, will at farthest be my time, 
beyond which I cannot stay in this present house. 
If ever you wished to deserve the blessing of him 
that was ready to perish ; if ever you were in 
a situation that a little kindness would have res- 
cued you from many evils; if ever you hope to 
find rest in future states of untried being — get 
ilMse matters of mine ready. My servant will 
fce out in the beginning of next week for the 
slock. My compliments to Mrs. Morison. 
I am, 

After all my tribulation, 

Dear Sir, yours, 

R. B. 



1 Po* ois LXXXIX. and XC. 



cxxxvi. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

OP DUNLOP. 

[Burns had no great respect for critics who found We 
mishes without perceiving beauties: he expresses itr 
contempt for such in this letter.J 

Mauchline, 21th Sept. 1788. 

I HAVE received twins, dear Madam, mort 
than once ; but scarcely ever with more pleasure 
than when I received yours of the 12th instani,. 
To make myself understood ; I had wrote to Mr. 
Graham, enclosing my poem addressed to him, 
and the same post which favoured me with 
yours brought me an answer from him. It was 
dated the very day he had received mine; andl 
am quite at a loss to say whether it was most 
polite or kind. 

Your criticisms, my honoured benefactress, 
are trulj^ the work of a friend. They are not 
the blasting depredations of a canker-toothed, 
caterpillar critic ; nor are they the fair state- 
ment of cold impartiality, balancing with un- 
feeling exactitude ihQ pro and con of an author's 
merits ; they are the judicious observations of 
animated friendship, selecting the beauties of 
the piece. I have just arrived from Nithsdale> 
and will be here a fortnight. I was on horse- 
back this morning by three o'clock ; for between 
my wife and my farm is just forty-six miles. 
As I jogged on in the dark, I was taken with a 
poetic fit as follows : 

" Mrs. Ferguson of Craigdarroch's lamenta- 
tion for the death of her son; an uncommonly 
promising youth of eighteen or nineteen years 
of age." 

" Fate gave the word— the arrow sped, 
And pierced my darling's heart. "^ 

You will not send me your poetic rambles, but, 
you see I am no niggard of mine. I am sure 
your impromptus give me double pleasure; whtit 
falls from your pen can neither be unentertaia 
ing in itself, nor indifi'erent to me. 

The one fault you found, is just; but I cannon 
please myself in an emendation. 

What a life of solicitude is the life of a parent I 
You interested me much in your young couple. 

I would not take my folio paper for this epis- 
tle, and now I repent it. I am so jaded with 
my dirty long journey that 1 was afraid t« 
drawl into the essence of dufness with any* 

2 Poem XCII. 



Ihing larger than a quarto, and so I must leave 
out another rhyme of this morning's manufac- 
ture. 

1 will pay the sapientipotent George, most 
cheerfully to hear from you ere I leave Ayr- 
shire R. B. 



CX XXVII. 



TO MR. PETER HILL. 

['• The < Address to Lochlomond,' which this letter 
t '.ticises," says Currie in 1800, " was written Ly a gentle- 
man, now (>ne of the masters of the High-school of Edin- 
.jirgh, and the same who translated the beautiful story 
.-' ' The Paria,' published in the Bee of Dr. Anderson."] 

Mauchline, 1st October, 1788. 

i HAVE been here in this country about three 
days, and all that time my chief reading has 
been the "Address to Lochlomond" you were 
BO obliging as to send to me. Were I impan- 
nelled one of the author's jury, to determine 
his criminality respecting the sin of poesy, my 
verdict should be " guilty ! a poet of nature's 
making!" It is an excellent method for im- 
provement, and what I believe every poet does, 
to place some favourite classic author in his own 
walks of study and composition, before him as 
a model. Though your author had not men- 
tioned the name, I could have, at half a glance, 
guessed his model' to be Thomson. Will my 
brother-poet forgive me, if I venture to hint 
that his im* ation of that immortal bard is in 
two or three places rather more servile than 
guch a genius as his required : — e. g. 

" To soothe the maddening passions all to peace." 

ADDRK9S. 

<' To soothe the throbbing passions into peace." 

Thomson. 

I think the "Address" is in simplicity, har- 
mony, and elegance of versification, fully equal 
to the " Seasons." Like Thomson, too, he has 
IcVKed into nature for himself: you meet with 
no copied description. One particular criticism 
I made at first reading ; in no one instance has 
he said too much. He never flags in his pro- 
gress, but, like a true poet of nature's making 
kindles in his course. His beginning is simple 
and modest, as if distrustful of the strength of 
bh pinion ; only, I do not altogether like — 

«' Truth. 

The soul of every soig that's nobly g-eat." 

Fiction is the soul of many a song that is 
%obly great. Perhaps I am wrong: this may 



be but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase, in 
line 7, page 6, " Great lake," too much vulgar^ 
ized by every-day language for so sublime a 
poem? 

" Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song," 
is perhaps no emendation. His enumeiatios 
of a comparison with other lakes is at once bar 
monious and poetic. Every reader's ideas muii 
sweep the 

" Winding margin of -^n hundred miles." 
The perspective that follows mountains blue 
— the imprisoned billows beating in vain — the 
wooded isles — the digression on the yew-tree — ' 
"Ben-lomond's lofty, cloud-envelop'd head," &e. 
are beautiful. A thunder-storm is a subject 
which has been often tried, yet our poet in hia 
grand picture has interjected a circumstance 
so far as I know, entirely original : — 

" the gloom 

Deep seam'd with frequent streaks of moving fire.'" 

In his preface to the Storm, "the glens how 
dark between," is noble highland landscape ! 
The " rain ploughing the red mould," too, ia 
beautifully fancied. " Ben-lomond's lofty, path- 
less top," is a good expression ; and the sur 
rounding view from it is truly great : tha 

' " silver mist, 

Beneath the beaming sun," 

is well described; and here he has coatrived to 
enliven his poem with a little of that passion 
which bids fair, I think, to usurp the modern 
muses altogether. I know not how far this 
episode is a beauty upon the whole, but the 
swain's wish to carry "some faint idea of the 
vision bright," to entertain her " partial lis 
tening ear," is a pretty thought. But in my 
opinion the most beautiful passages in the whole 
poem are the fowls crowding, in wintry frosts, 
to Lochlomond's "hospitable flood;" their 
wheeling round, their lighting, mixing, diving, 
&c.; and the glorious description of the sports- 
man. This last is equal to anything in tb« 
"Seasons." The idea of "the floating tribe 
distant seen, far glistering to the moon," pro- 
voking his eye as he is obliged to leave them, 
is a noble ray of poetic genius. " The howling 
winds," the "hideous roar" of the white cas- 
cades," are all in the same style. 

I forget that while I am thus holding forth 
with the heedless warmth of an enthusiast, ] 
am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. I must, 
however, mention that the last verse of the six 
teenth page is one of the most elegant compli 



392 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



ments I have ever seen. I must likewise notice 
that beautiful paragraph beginning, "The 
gleaming lake," &c. I dare not go into the 
particular beauties of the last two paragraphs, 
but they are admirably fine, and truly Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this lengthened 
nciawl. I had no idea of it when I began — I 
should like to know who the author is ; but, 
whoeter Le be, please present him with my 
fateful thanks for the entertainment he has 
afforded me. 

A friend of mine desired me to commission for 
him two books, "Letters on the Religion essen- 
tial to Man," a book you sent me before ; and 
" The World unmasked, or the Philosopher the 
greatest Cheat." Send me them by the first 
opportunity. The Bible you sent me is truly 
elegant ; I only wish it had been in two volumes. 

R. B, 



CXXXVIII. 



TO THE EDITOR OF "THE STAR." 

[The clergyman who preached the sermon which this 
letter condemns, was a man equally worthy and stern — ^a 
divine of Scotland's elder day: he received "a harraoni- 
Dus call" to a smaller stipend than that of Dunscore — 
and accepted it.] 

November ^th, 1788. 
Sir, 

IfOTWiTHSTANDiNG the opprobrious epithets 
with which some of our philosophers and gloomy 
sectarians have branded our nature — the prin- 
ciple of universal selfishness, the proneness to 
all evil, they have given us ; still the detestation 
.n which inhumanity to the distressed, or inso- 
lence to the fallen, are held by all mankind, 
Bhows that they are not natives of the human 
heart. Even the unhappy partner of our kind, 
who is undone, the bitter consequence of his 
follies or his crimes, who but sympathizes with 
the miseries of this ruined profligate brother ? 
We forget the injuries and feel for the man. 

went, last Wednesday, to my parish church, 
most cordially to join in grateful acknowledg- 
ment to the Author of all Gtood, for the con- 
Bequent blessings of the glorious revolution. To 
that auspicious event we owe no less than our 
liberties, civil and religious ; to it we are like- 
wise indebted for the present Royal Family, the 
ruling features of whose administration have 
fcver been mildness to the subject, and tender- 
ness of his rights. 

Bred and educated in revolution principles, 



the principles of reason and common sense, it 
could not be any silly political prejudice whici 
made my heart revolt at the harsh abusive man- 
ner in which the reverend gentleman mentioned 
the House of Stewart, and which, I am afraid, 
was too much the language of the day. We 
may rejoice sufficiently in our deliverance from 
past evils, without cruelly raking up the ashes 
of those whose misfortune it was, perhaps aa 
much as their crime, to be the authors of those 
evils ; and we may bless God for all his good- 
ness to us as a nation, without at the same time 
cursing a few ruined, powerleaa exiles, -who 
only harboured ideas, and made attempts, that 
most of us would have done, had we been in 
their situation. 

"The bloody and tyrannical House ot Stew- 
art" may be said with propriety and justice, 
when compared with the present royal family, 
and the sentiments of our days ; but is there 
no allowance to be made for the manners of 
the times ? Were the royal contemporaries of 
the Stewarts more attentive to their subjects' 
rights ? Might not the epithets of "bloody and 
tyrannical" be, with at least equal justice, 
applied to the House of Tudor, of York, or an;^ 
other of their predecessors ? 

The simple state of the case. Sir, seems to be 
this : — At that period, the science of govern- 
ment, the knowledge of the true relation be- 
tween king and subject, was, like other sciences 
and other knowledge, just nx its infancy, 
emerging from dark ages of ignorance and bar- 
barity. 

The Stewarts only contended for prerogatives 
which they knew their predecessors enjoyed, 
and which they saw their contemporaries enjoy- 
ing; but these prerogatives were inimical to 
the happiness of a nation and the rights of sub- 
jects. 

In this contest between prince and people, 
the consequence of that light of science which 
had lately dawned over Europe, the monarch of 
France, for example, was victorious over thu 
struggling liberties of his people with as, 
luckily the monarch failed, and his mwarrant- 
able pretensions fell a sacrifice to our rights 
and happiness. Whether it was owing to the 
wisdom of leading individuals, or to the just- 
ling of parties, I cannot preieija to determine; 
but likewise happily for ucs, the kingly power 
was shifted into another bianch of the family, 
who, as they owed the throne solely to th« caM 



»f a free people^ could claim nothing incon- 
sistent with the convenanted terms which placed 
them there. 

The Stewarts have been condemned and 
laughed at for the folly and impracticability 
of their attempts in 1715 and 1745. That they 
faLed, I bless God; but cannot join in the 
ridicule against them. Who does not know that 
the abilities or defects of leaders and com- 
Oai'lers are often hidden until put to the 
touchstone of exigency; and that there is a 
saprice of fortune, an omnipotence in particular 
accidents and conjunctures of circumstances, 
which exalt us as heroes, or brand us as mad- 
men, just as they are for or against us ? 

Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, in- 
consistent being ; who would believe. Sir, that 
in this our Augustan age of liberality and re- 
finement, while we seem so justly sensible and 
jealous of our rights and liberties, and animated 
with sucii indignation against the very memory 
of those who would have subverted them — that 
a certain people under our national protection 
should complain, not against our monarch and 
a few favourite advisers, but against our whole 
LEGISLATIVE BODY, for similar oppression, and 
almost in the very same terms, as our forefa- 
thers did of the house of Stewart ! I will not, 
I cannot enter into the merits of the cause ; but 
I dare say the American Congress, in 1776, will 
be allowed to be as able and as enlightened as 
the Erglish Convention was in 1688; and that 
their posterity will celebrate the centenary of 
their deliverance from us, as duly and sincerely 
as we do ours from the oppressive measures of 
the wrong-headed House of Stewart. 

To conclude, Sir ; let every man who has a 
te»; ^or the many miseries incident to humanity 
feel for a family illustrious as any in Europe, 
and unfortunate beyond historic precedent ; and 
lit every Briton (and particularly every Scots- 
man^ who 5ver looked with reverential pity on 
the dotage of a parent, cast a veil over the fatal 
«iB**ak>i of the is;ings of his forefathers 

R. B. 



CXXXIX. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

AT MOREHAM MAINS. 

(Tf.e nefi. presented to the poet by the Dunlops was 
&on^ht, at 'he sale of Ellislard stock, by Miller of Dal- 
•wiDton, and long grazed th| oastures in ills " policies" 
>T tte name o' "Uurns."] 



Mauchline, IBth November, 1788. 
Madam, 

I HAD the very great pleasure of dining at 
Dunlop yesterday. Men are said to flatter wo- 
men because they are weak ; if it is so, poets 
must be weaker still ; for Misses R and K. and 
Miss G. M'K., with their flattering attentionSj 
and artful compliments, absolutely turneJ m^ 
head. I own they did not lard me over m 
many a poet does his patron, but they so intoxi- 
cated me with their sly insinuations and deli- 
cate inuendos of compliment, that if it had not 
been for a lucky recollection, how much addi- 
tional weight and lustre your good opinion and 
friendship must give me in that circle, I had 
certainly looked upon myself as a person of no 
small consequence. I dare not say one word 
how much I was charmed with the Major's 
friendly welcome, elegant manner, and acute re- 
mark, lest I should be thought to overbalance 
my orientalisms of applause over-against the 
finest quey^ in Ayrshire, which he made me a 
preseat of to help and adorn my farm-stock. 
As it was on hallow-day, I am determined an- 
nually, as that day returns, to decorate her horna 
with an ode of gratitude to the family of Dunlop. 

So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop, 
I will take the first conveniency to dedicate a 
day, or perhaps two, to yoix and friendship, 
under the guarantee of the Major's hospitality. 
There will soon be threescore and ten miles of 
permanent distance between us ; and now that 
your friendship and friendly correspondence ia 
entwisted with the heart-strings of my enjoy 
ment of life, I must indulge myself in a happj 
day of *' The feast of reason and the flow of 
soul." R. B. 



CXL. 
TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, 

ENGRAVER. 

[James Johnson, though not an ungenerous iriiiii, 
meanly refused to give a copy of the Musical Museum to 
Burns, who desired to bestow it on one to whcrn hia 
family was deeply indebted. Tliiswas in the last year 
of the poet's life, and after the Museum had been brigh 
ened by so much of his lyric verse.] 

Mauchline, November 16ih, 1788. 
My dear Sir, 
I have sent you two more songs If jou havf 



1 Heif«T. 



S94 



GENEEAL CORRESPONDENCE 



got any tunes, or anything to correct, please 
fiend them by return of the carrier. 

I can easily see, my dear friend that you 
will very probably have four volumes. Perhaps 
you may not find your account lucratively in 
this business ; but you are a patriot for the 
music of your country ; and I am certain 
posterity will look on themselves as highly in- 
debted to your public spirit. Be not in a hurry; 
let us go on correctly, and your name shall be 
immortal. 

I am preparing a flaming preface for your 
third volume. I see every day new musical 
publications advertised; but what are they? 
Gaudy, hunted butterflies of a day, and then 
vanish for ever : but your work will outlive the 
momentary neglects of idle fashion, and defy 
the teeth, of time. 

Have you never a fair goddess that leads you 
a wild-goose chase of amorous devotion ? Let 
me know a few of her qualities, such as whether 
she be rather black, or fair; plump, or thin; 
short, or tall, &c. ; and choose your air, and I 
shall task my muse to celebrate her. 

R. B. 



CXLI. 

TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 

[Blacklock, though blind, was a cheerful and good 
man. " There was, perhaps, never one among all man- 
kind," says Heron, "whom you might more truly have 
called an angel upon earth."] 

Mauchline, November 15th, 1788. 
Reverend and dear Sir, 

As I hear nothing of your motions, but that 
you are, or were, out of town, I do not know 
where this may find you, or whether it will find 
you at all. I wrote you a long letter, dated 
from the land of mati-imony, in June ; but either 
it had not found you, or, what I dread more, it 
found you or Mrs. Blacklock in too precarious 
a gtat ) of health and spirits t« take notice of 
aa iilo paijket. 

I have ione many little things for Johnson; 
sinc3 I had the pleasure of seeing you ; and 1 
hav3 finished one piece, in the way of Pope's 
" Moral Epistles ;" but, from your silence, I 
have everything to fear, so I have only sent you 
two melancholy things, which I tremble lest 
they should too well suit the tone of your pre- 
lent feelings. 

In a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, to 



Nithsdale; till then, my direction is at thw 
place ; after that period, it will be at Ellisland, 
near Dumfries. It would extremely oblige me, 
were it but half a line, to let me know how you 
are, and where you are. Can I be indifferent 
to the fate of a man to whom I owe so much ! 
A man whom I not only esteem, but venerate. 

My -VYarmest good wishes and most respectful 
compliments to Mrs. Blacklock, and Miss Joha'« 
ston, if she is with you. 

I cannot conclude without telling you that I 
am more and more pleased with the step I 
took respecting " my Jean." Two things, from. 
my happy experience, I set down as apothegms 
in life. A wife's head is immaterial, com- 
pared with her heart; and — "Virtue's (for wis- 
dom what poet pretends to it?) ways are ways 
of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace." 
Adieu ! R. B. 

[Here follow <' The Mother's Lament for the Loss of 
her Son," and the song beginning " The lazy misi hang'i 
from the brow of the hill."] 



OXLII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[The "Auld lang syne," which Burns here introduces 
to Mrs. Dunlop as a strain of tba olden time, is as surely 
his own as Tam-o-Shanter.] 

Ellisland, 17th December, 1788. 
My dear honoured Friend, 
Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have just 
read, makes me very unhappy. "Almost olind 
and wholly deaf," are melancholy news of 
human nature ; but w\en told of a much-loved 
and honoured friend, chey carry misery in the 
sound. Gooduesa on your part, and gratitude 
on mine, began a tie which has gradually en- 
twisted itself among ths dearest chords ot mj 
bosom, and J treiTibie at che omens of your late 
and present aillrg haoii and shattered health. 
You miscalould'oe auatiera widely, when you for- 
bid my WMtinfy on you, lest it should hurt my 
worldly couQ'.iau. My small scale of farming 
is exceedir fjiy more simple and easy than wha* 
you have Ldt'Ay seen at Moreham Mains. But, 
be that »J ic may, the heart of the man and the 
fancy of the poet are the two grand considera- 
tions for which I live : if miry ridges and dirty 
dunghills are to engross the best part of the 
functions of my soul immortal, I had better been 
a rook or a magpie at once, and then I shou1(? 



OF ROBERT BURNS 



399 



ttot have been plagued with any ideas superior 
to breaking of clods and picking up grubs ; not 
to mention barn-door cocks or mallards, crea- 
tures with which I could almost exchange lives 
at any time. If you continue so deaf, I am 
afraid a visit will be no great pleasure to either 
of us ; but if I hear you are got so well again 
fts tc be able to relish conversation, look you 
to it, Madam, for I will make my threaten- 
ifigs good. I am to be at the New-year-day 
fa'-i of Ayr ; and, by all that is sacred in the 
world, friend, I will come and see you. 

Your meeting, which you so well describe, 
with your old schoolfellow and friend, was 
truly interesting. Out upon the ways of the 
world! — They spoil "these social offsprings of 
the heart." Two veterans of the "men of the 
world" would have met with little more heart- 
workings than two old hacks worn out on the 
road. Apropos, is not the Scotch phrase, "Auld 
lang syne," exceedingly expressive ? There is 
an old song and tune which has often thrilled 
through my soul. You know I am an enthusiast 
in old Scotch songs. I shall give you the verses 
on the other sheet, as I suppose Mr. Ker will 
save you the postage. 

" Should auld acquaintauce be forgot !"1 

Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven- 
inspired poet who composed this glorious frag- 
ment. There is more of the fire of native genius 
in it than in half-a-dozen of modern English 
Bacchanalians! Now I am on my hobby-horse, 
I cannot help inserting two other old stanzas, 
which please me mightily: — 

" Go fetch to me a pint of wine. "2 

R. B. 



CXLIII. 
Tu MISS DAVIES. 

^The I-aird of Glenriddel informed « the charming, 
lovely Davies" that Burns was composL-^g a song in her 
fT&Ae Tiie poet acted on this, and sent the song, erj- 
•io»8d m this characteristic letter ] 

December, 1788. 

I UNDEESTAND my Very worthy neighbour, 
Mr. Ridiel, has informed you that I have made 
you the subject of some verses. There is some- 
thing so provoking in the idea of being the bur- 
then of a ballad, that I do not think Job or 
Afoses, thougt such patterns of patience and 



8e«yong ~CX. 



2 See Song LXXII. 



meekness, could have resisted the curiosity ♦« 
know what that ballad was : so my worthy 
friend has done me a mischief, which T dare s»y 
he never iirtended ; and reduced me to the un 
fortunate alternative of leaving your curiosity 
ungratified, or else disgusting you wilh foolish 
verses, the unfinished production of a randora 
moment, and never meant to have met you? 
ear. I have heard or read somewhere cf a 
gentleman who had some genius, much eccen- 
tricity, and very considerable dexterity with hia 
pencil. In the accidental group of, life into 
which one is thrown, wherever this gentleman 
met with a character in a more than ordinary 
degree congenial to his heart, he used to steal 
a sketch of the face, merely, he said, as a nota 
bene, to point out the agreeable recollection to 
his memory. What this gentleman's pencil was 
to him, my muse is to me ; and the verses I do 
myself the honour to send you are a memento 
exactly of the same kind that he indulged in. 

It may be more owing to the fastidiousnesa 
of my caprice than the delicacy of my taste ; 
but I am so often tired, disgusted and hurt with 
insipidity, affectation, and pride of mankind, 
that when I meet with a person "after my own 
heart," I positively feel what an orthodox Pro- 
testant would call a species of idolatry, which 
acts on my fancy like inspiration ; and I ca» 
no more desist rhyming on the impulse, than 
an jEolian harp can refuse its tones to the 
streaming air. A distich or two would be the 
consequence, though the object which hit my 
fancy were gray-bearded-age ; but where my 
theme is youth and beauty, a young lady whos» 
personal charms, wit, and sentiment are equallv 
striking and unaffected — by heavens! though 
I had lived three score years a married man, 
and three score years before I was a mar- 
ried man, my imagination would hallow the 
very idea : and I am truly sorry that the m- 
closed stanzas have done such poor justice to 
such a subject. R. B, 



CXLIV. 

TO MR. JOHN TENNANT. 

[The mill of John Currie stood on a small stream which 
fed the loch of Friar's Carse — near the house of the dam* 
of whom he sang, " Sic a wife as Willie had."] 

December 22, 1788. 
I YESTERDAY tried my cask of whiskey for th« 
first time, and I assure you it does you great 



59e 



aSNEEAL CORKESPONr^ENCE 



credit. It will bear five waters strong ; or six 
ordinary toddy. The whiskey of this country 
is a most rascally liquor ; and, by consequence, 
only drank by the most rascally part of the in- 
habitants. I am persuaded, if you once get a 
footing here, you might do a great deal of busi- 
ness, in the way of consumpt ; and should you 
oommeace distiller again, this is the native 
barley country. I am ignoiant if, in your pre- 
sent way of dealing, you would think it worth 
your while to extend your business so far as 
this country side. I write you this on the 
account of an accident, which I must take the 
merit of having partly designed to. A neigh- 
bour of mine, a John Currie, miller in C arse- 
mill — a man who is, in a word, a "very" good 
man, even for a £500 bargain — he and his wife 
were in my house the time I broke open the 
cask. They keep a country public-house and 
pell a great deal of foreign spirits, but all along 
thought that whiskey would have degraded this 
house. They were perfectly astonished at my 
whiskey, both for its taste and strength ; and, 
by their desire, I write you to know if you could 
supply them with liquor of an equal quality, 
and what price. Please write me by first post, 
and direct to me at Ellisland, near Dumfries. 
If you could take a jaunt this way yourself, I 
have a spare spoon, knife and fork very much at 
your service. My compliments to Mrs. Ten- 
nant, and all the good folks in Glenconnel and 
Barquharrie. R. B. 



CXLV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[The feeling mood of moral reflection exhibited in the 
followizig letter, was common to the house of William 
Uurns : in a letter addressed by Gilbert to Robert of this 
date, the poet is reminded of the early vicissitudes of 
their name, and desired to look up, and be thankful.] 

Ellisland, New-year-day Morning, 1789. 
This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, 
and would to God that I came under the apostle 
James's description ! — the prayer of a righteous 
nan availeth much. In that case. Madam, you 
gh^uld irelcome in a year full of blessings : 
everything that obstructs or disturbs tranquil- 
lity and self-enjoyment, should be removed, 
and every pleasure that frail humanity can 
taste, should be yours. I own mj'^self so little 
a Presbyterian, that I approve of set times and 
4f!as<ins of more than ordinary acts of devotion, 



for breaking in on that habitual routine of lif« 
and thought, which is so apt to reduce our exist 
ence to a kind of instinct, or even sometimes, 
and with some minds, to a state very little au« 
perior to mere machinery. 

This day, the first Sunday of May, a breezy, 
blue-skyed noon some time about the beginning, 
and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about 
the end, of autumn ; these, time out of miad, 
have been with me a kind of holiday. 

I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in 
the Spectator, " The Vision of Mirza," a piece 
that struck my young fancy before I was capa- 
ble of fixing an idea to a word of three syllables : 
"On the 6th day of the moon, which, according 
to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep 
holy, after having washed myself, and ofi'ered up 
my morning devotions, I ascended the high hill 
of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day 
in meditation and prayer." 

We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the 
substance or structure of our souls, so cannot 
account for those seeming caprices in them, 
that one should be particularly pleased with this 
thing, or struck with that, which, on minds of a 
difl^erent cast, makes no extraordinary impres- 
sion. I have some favourite flowers in spring, 
among which are the mountain-daisy, the hare- 
bell, the fox-glove, the wild brier-rose, the bud- 
ding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that 1 view 
and hang over with particular delight. I never 
hear the loud solitary whistle of the curlew in 
a summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of 
a troop of grey plovers, in an autumnal morn 
ing, without feeling an elevation of soul like 
the enthusiasm of devotion or poetry. Tell me, 
my dear friend, to what can this be owing? Are 
we a piece of machinery, which, like the ^olian 
harp, passive, takes the impression of the pass- 
ing accident ? Or do these workings argue 
something within us above the trodden clod ? I 
own myself partial to such proofs of those aw- 
ful and important realities — a God that made aU 
things — man's immaterial and immortal nature 
— and a world of weal or woe beyond death laJ 
the grave. R. B. 



CXLVT- * 

TO DR. MOORE. 

[The poet seems, in this letter^ to perceii e fhat Ellib 
land was not the bargain he had reckoned it : be innniatM 



OF KOBERT BURNS. 



H9? 



u the reader will remsmfeer, somcjthing of the same kind 
no Margaret Chalmer«.l 



1 Margaret Chalmer«.] 



EUisland, 4:tk Jan. V 



Sir, 



As often as I think of writing to you, which 
has been three or four times every week these 
Eix months, it gives me something so like the 
>dea of an ordinary-sized statue offering at a 
conversation with the Rhodian colossus, that my 
mind misgives me, and the affair always mis- 
carries somewhere between purpose and resolve. 
I have at last got some business with you, and 
business letters are written by the stylebook. I 
Ray my business is with you. Sir, for you never 
had any with me, except the business that be- 
nevolence has in the mansion of poverty. 

The character and employment of a poet were 
formerly my pleasure, but are now my pride. I 
know that a very great deal of my late eclat 
was owing to the singularity of my situation, and 
the honest prejudice of Scotsmen ; but still, as 
I said in the preface to my first edition, I do 
look upon myself as having some pretensions 
from Nature to the poetic character. I have not 
a doubt but the knack, the aptitude, to learn 
the muses' trade, is a gift bestowed by him 
'* who forms the secret bias of the soul ;" — but 
I as firmly believe, that excellence in the profes- 
sion is the fruit of industry, labour, attention, 
and pains. At least I am resolved to try my 
doctrine by the test of experience. Another 
appearance from the pr«»ss I put off to a very 
distant day, a day that may never arrive — but 
i poesy I am determined to prosecute with all my 
vigour. Nature has given very few, if any, of 
the profession, the talents of shining in every 
species of composition. I shall try (for until 
trial it is impossible to know) whether she has 
qualified me to shine in any one. The worst of 
it is, by the time one has finished a piece, it 
has been so often viewed and reviewed before 
the mental eye, that one loses, in a good mea- 
sure, the powers of critical discrimination. 
Here the best criterion I know is a friend — not 
only of abilities to judge, but with good-nature 
enough, like a prudent teacher with a young 
learner, to praise perhaps a little more than is 
exactly just, lest the thin-skinned animal fall 
into that most deplorable of all poetic diseases 
— heart-breaking despondency of himself. Dare 
I, Sir, already immensely intlebted to your good- 
ness, ask the additional obligation of your being 
that friend to me ? I enclose you an essay of mine 
ID a walk of poesy to me entirely new; I mean 



the epistle addressed to R. G. Esq. or Robert 
Graham of Fintray, Esq., a gentleman of uncom' 
mon worth, to whom I lie under very great ob- 
ligations. The story of the poem, like most o* 
my poems, is connected with my own story, and 
to give you the one, I must give you something 
of the other, I cannot boast of Mr. Creech's 
ingenuous fair dealing to me. He kep* ma 
hanging about Edinburgh from the 7th /Vugusi, 
1787, until the 13th April, 1788, before h© 
would condescend to give me a statement of 
affairs ; nor had I got it even then, but for an 
angry letter I wrote him, which irritated hia 
pride. "I could" not a "tale" but a detail 
"unfold," but what am I that should speak 
against the Lord's anointed Bailie of Edin- 
burgh ? 

I believe I shall in the whole, 1001. copy-right 
included, clear about 400Z. some little odds ; and 
even part of this depends upon what the gentle 
man has yet to settle with me. I give you thia 
information, because you did me the honour to 
interest yourself much in my welfare. 1 give 
you this information, but I give it to yourself 
only, for I am still much in the gentleman's 
mercy. Perhaps I injure the man in the idea 
I am sometimes tempted to have of him — God 
forbid I should ! A little time will try, for in a 
month I shall go to town to wind up the busi 
ness if possible. 

To give the rest of my story in brief, I have 
married "my Jean," and taken a farm: with 
the first step 1 have every day more and 
more reason to be satisfied : with the last, it is 
rather the reverse. I have a younger brother, 
who supports my aged mother ; another still 
younger brother, and three sisters, in a farm. 
On my last return from Edinburgh, it cost mo 
about ISOl. to save them from ruin. Not that 
I have lost so much.— I only interposed between 
my brother and his impending fate by the loan 
of so much. I give myself no airs on this, for 
it was mere selfishness on my part: I was ccn- 
scious that the wrong scale of the balance waa 
pretty heavily charged, and I thought Ihat 
throwing a little filial piety and fraternal affec- 
tion into the scale in my favour, might nelp to 
smooth matters at the gr/md reckoning. There 
is still one thing would make my circurastancea 
quite easy: I have an excise officer's commis- 
sion, and I live in the midst of a country divi- 
sion. My request to Mr. Graham, who is one 
of the commissioners of excise, was, if in hia 
power, to procure me that division. If I wer« 



B98 



GENERAL COKRESPONDENCJ^ 



rery sanguine, I might hope that some of my 
great patrons might procure me a Treasury 
warrant for supervisor, surveyor-general, &c. 

Thus, secure of a livelihood, "to thee, sweet 
poetry, delightful maid," I would consecrate 
my future days. R. B. 



CXLVII. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

[The song which the poet says he brushed up a little 
IB novi^bere mentioned : he wrote one hundred, and 
brushed up more, for the Museum of Johnson.] 

Ellisland, Jan. 6, 1789. 

Mant happy returns of the season to you, 
my dear Sir ! May you be comparatively happy 
up to your comparative worth among the sons 
of men ; which wish would, I am sure, make 
you one of the most blest of thp human race. 

I do not know if passing a "Writer to the 
signet," be a trial of scientific merit, or a mere 
business of frienis and interest. However it 
be, let me quote you my two favourite passages, 
which, though I have repeated them ten thou- 
sand times, still they rouse my manhood and 
Bteel my resolution like inspiration. 



On reason build resolve, 



That column of true majesty in man." 

Young. Night Thottghts. 
>'Hear, Alfred, hero of the state, 
Thy genius heaven's high will declare ; 
The triumph of the truly great, 
Is never, never to despair ! 
Is never to despair !" 

Thomson. Masque op Alfred. 
I grant you enter the lists of life, to "struggle 
for bread, business, notice, and distinction, in 
common with hundreds. — But who are they? 
Men, like yourself, and of that aggregate body 
four compeers, seven-tenthjs of them come short 
of year advantages natural and accidental; 
while two of those that remain, either neglect 
their parts, as flowers blooming in a desert, or 
mfj'Spend their strength, like a bull goring a 
bramble-bush. 

But to change the theme : I am still catering 
for Johnson's publication; and among others, 
[ have brushed up the following old favourite 
Bong a little, with a view to your worship. I 
have only altered a word here and there ; but if 
you like the humour of it, we shall think of a 
«tj\nza or two to add to it 

R. B 



CXLVIII. 

TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART 

[The iron justice to which the poet alludes, in tin b l«t 
ter, was exercised by Dr. Gregory, on the poem cf tlw 
" Wounded Hare."] 



Sir, 



Ellisland, 20th Jan, 1789, 



The enclosed sealed packet I sent to Edin 
burgh, a few days after I had the happiness of 
meeting you in. Ayrshire, but you were gone foi 
the Continent. I have now added a fpw more of 
my productions, those for which I am indebted 
to the Nithsdale muses. The piece inscribed to 
R. G. Esq., is a copy of verses I sent Mr. Gra- 
ham, of Fintray, accompanying a request for his 
assistance in a matter to me of very great mo« 
ment. To that gentleman I am already doubly 
indebted, for deeds of kindness of serious im- 
port to my dearest interests, done in a manner 
grateful to the delicate feelings of sensibility. 
This poem is a species of composition new to 
me, but T do not intend it shall be my last essay 
of the kind, as you will see by the " Poet's Pro- 
gress." These fragments, if my design succeed, 
are but a small part of the intended whole. I 
propose it shall be the work of my utmost ex- 
ertions, ripened by years ; of course I do not 
wish it much known. The fragment beginning 
" A little, upright, pert, tart, &c.," I have not 
shown to man living, till I now send it you. It 
forms the postulata, the axioms, the definition 
of a character, which, if it appear at all, shall 
be placed in a variety of lights. This particu- 
lar part I send you merely as a sample of my 
hand at portrait-sketching, but, lest idle con- 
jecture should pretend to point out the origi 
nal, please to let it be for your single, sole in 
spection. 

Need I make any apology for this trouble, to 
a gentleman who has treated me ifith such 
marked benevolence and peculiar kindness— 
who has entered into my interests with so muela 
zeal, and on whose critical decisions T can sc 
fully depend ? A poet as I am by trade, these 
decisions are to me of the last conseqiiense. 
My late transient acquaintance among some of 
j the mere rank, and file of greatness, I resign 
I with ease ; but to the distinguished champions 
i of genius and learning, I shall be ever ambi- 
tious of being known. The native genius and 
accurate discernment in Mr. Stewart's critical 
strictures ; the justness (iron justice, for he haj 
no bowels of compassion for a poor poetic siw 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



391 



aor) of Dr Gregory's remarks, and the delicacy 
of Professor Dalzel's taste, I shall ever revere. 

I shall be in Edinburgh some time next 
month. 

I have the honour to be, Sir, 

Your highly obliged, and very 

Humble servant, 

R. B. 



CXLIX. 

TO BISHOF GEDDES. 

[A exander Geldes was i controversialist and poet, 
*od a bishop of the brokP'Ki remnant of the Catholic 
Church of Scotland : he is known as the author of a 
rery humorous ballad cabled " The Wee bit Wifickie," 
and as the translator of one of the books of the Iliad, In 
opposition to Cowpei '^ 

Ellisland, SdFeb. 1789. 
Venerable Father, 

As I am conscious that wherever I am, you do 
me the honour to interest yourself in my wel- 
fare, it gives me pleasure to inform you that I 
■ am here at last, stationary in the serious busi- 
ness of life, and have now not only the retired 
leisure, but the hearty inclination, to attend to 
those great and important questions — what 
I am ? where I am ? and for what I am des- 
tined? 

In that first concern, the conduct of the man, 
there was ever but one side on which I was ha- 
bitually blameable, and there I have secured 
myself in the way pointed out by. Nature and 
Nature's God. I was sensible that to so help- 
'ess a creature as a poor poet, a wife and 
family were encumbrances, which a species of 
prudence would bid him shun; but when the 
alternative was, being at eternal warfare with 
myself, on account of habitual follies, to give 
them no worse name, which no general example, 
no licentious wit, no sophistical infidelity, would, 
to me ever justify, I must have been a fool to 
have hesitated, and a madman to have made 
another choice. Besides, I had in "my Jean" 
ft long and much-loved fellow-creature's happi- 
ness or misery among my hands, and who could 
trifle with such a deposit ? 

In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself 
tolerably secure : I have good hopes of my 
farm, but should they fail, I have an excise com- 
mission, which on my simple petition, will, at 
B ay time, procure me bread. There is a certain 

■tgma affix r I to the character of as Excise 



officer, but I do not pretend to bprroTv honour 
from my profession ; and thougli the salary be 
comparatively small, it is luxury to anything 
that the first twenty-five years of my life taughi 
me to expect. 

Thus, with a rational aim and method in life, 
you may easily guess, my reverend and mu^^h- 
honoured friend, that my characteristical trade 
is not forgotten. I am, if possible, more than 
over an enthusiast to the muses. I am deter- 
mined to study man and nature, and in that 
view incessantly ; and to try if the ripening and 
corrections of years can enable me to produce 
something worth preserving. 

You will see in your book, which I beg your 
pardon for detaining so long, that I have been 
tuning my lyre on the banks of Nith. Some 
large poetic plans that are floating in my ima 
gination, or partly put in execution, I shall im- 
part to you when I have the pleasure of meet- 
ing with you ; which, if you are then in Edin 
burgh, I shall have about the beginning of March. 

That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which 
you were pleased to honour me, you must still 
allow me to challenge ; for with whatever un- 
concern I give up my transient connexion with 
the merely great, those self-important beings 
whose intrinsic * * -^^ * [con]cealed under the 
accidental advantages of their * * * -J^- I cannot 
lose the patronizing notice of the learned and 

good, without the bitterest regret. 

R. B 



CL. 



TO MR. JAMES BURNESS. 

[Fanny Burns married Adam Armour, brother to bon 
nie Jean, went with him to Mauchline, and bore hin 
sons and daughters.] 

Ellisland, 9th Feb. 1789. 
My dear Sir, 
Why I did not write to you long agOj is what 
even on the rack, I could not answer. If yo-a 
can in your mind form an idea of indolence, die- 
sipation, hurry, cares, change of country, enter 
ing on unti'ied scenes of life, all combined, you 
will save me the trouble of a blushing apology 
It could not be want of regard for a man for 
whom I had a high esteem before I knew him — 
an esteem which has much increased since I did 
know him; and this caveat entered, I shall 
plead guilty to any other indictment with which 
you shall please to charge me 



400 



GENERAL COREESPONDENCE 



After I had parted from you for many months 
my life was one continued scene of dissipation. 
Here at last I am become stationary, and have 
taken a farm and — a wife. 

The farm is beautifully situated on the Nith, 
a large river that runs by Dumfries, and falls 
into the Solway frith. I have gotten a lease of 
my farsn as long as I pleased : but how it may 
turn out is just a guess, it is yet to improve 
ftud enclose, &c. ; however, I have good hopes 
of my bargain on the whole. 

jNly wife is my Jean, with whose story you are 
partly acquainted. I found I had a much-loved 
fellow creature's happiness or misery among my 
hands, and I durst not trifle with so sacred a 
deposit. Indeed I have not any reason to re- 
pent the step I have taken, as I have attached 
myself to a very good wife, and have shaken 
myself loose of every bad failing. 

I have found ray book a very profitable busi- 
ness, and with the profits of it I have begun 
life pretty decently. Should fortune not favour 
me in farming, as I have no great faith in her 
fickle ladyship, I have provided myself in an- 
other resource, which however some folks may 
'aifect to despise it, is still a comfortable shift 
in the day of misfortune. In the heyday of my 
fame, a gentleman whose name at least I dare 
say you know, as his estate lies somewhere near 
Dundee, Mr. Graham, of Fintray, one of the 
commissioners of Excise, offered me the commis- 
sion of an Excise officer. I thought it prudent 
to accept the ofi^er; and accordingly I took my 
instructions, and have my commission by me. 
Whether I may ever do duty, or be a penny the 
better for it, is what I do not know ; but I have 
the comfortable assurance, that come whatever 
ill fate will, I can, on my simple petition to the 
Excise-board, get into employ. 

We have lost poor uncle Robert this winter. 
He has long been very weak, and with very lit- 
tle alteration on him, he expired 3d Jan. 

His son William has been with me this winter, 
acd goes in May to be an apprentice to a mason. 
His ether son, the eldest, John, comes to me I 
czpect in summer. The}' are both remarkably 
rtD\it young fellows, and promise to do well. 
His only daughter, Fanny, has been with me 
ever since her father's death, and I purpose 
keeping her in my family till she hm quite woman 
grown, and fit for service. She is one of the 
sleverest girls, and has one of the most amiable 
iispositions I have ever seen. 

All friends in this couEtry and Ayrshire are 



well. Remember me to all friends in the north 
My wife joins me in compliments to Mrs. B. antf 
family. 

I am ever, my dear Cousin, 

Yours, sincerely, 

R. B. 



CLI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[The beautiful lines with which this letter concludes 
I have reason to be'ieve were the production of the lady 
to whom the epistle is addressed.] 

Ellisland, ith 3Iarch, 1789. 

Herb am I, my honoured friend, returned 
safe from the capital. To a man, who has a 
home, however humble or remote — if that homa 
is like mine, the scene of domestic comfort — the 
bustle of Edinburgh will soon be a business of 
sickening disgust. 

' Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you !'' 

When I must skulk into a corner, lest the rat 
tling equipage of some gaping blockhead should . 
mangle me in the mire, I am tempted to exclaim 
— " What merits has he had, or what demerit 
have I had, in some state of pre-existence, that 
he is ushered into this state of being with the 
sceptre of rule, and the key of riches in his puny 
fist, and I am kicked into the world, the sport 
of folly, or the victim of pride?" I have read 
somewhere of a monarch (in Spain I think it 
was), who was so out of humour with the Ptole- 
mean system of astronomy, that he said had 
he been of the Creator's council, he could 
have saved him a great deal of labour and ab- 
surdity. I will not defend this blasphemoua 
speech ; but often, as I have glided with humble 
stealth through the pomp of Princes' street, it 
has suggested itself to me, as an improvement 
on the present human figure, that a man in pro- 
portion to his own conceit of his consequence ia 
the world, could have pushed out the longitude 
of his common size, as a snail pushes out his 
horns, or, as we draw out a perspective. This 
trifling alteration, not to mention the prodigious 
saving it would be in the tear and wear of the 
neck and limb-sinews of many of his majesty's 
liege subjects, in the way of tossing the head 
and tiptoe strutting, would evidently turn out a 
vast advantage, in enablirg us at once to adjust 
the ceremonials in making a bow, or making 
way to a great man, and that too within a second 
of the precise spheri : al angle of reverencQ, oi 



OF ROBERT BURNJS. 



401 



an inch of the particular point of respectful dis- 
tance, which the important creature itself re- 
quires ; AS a measuring-glance at its tower- 
ing altitude, would determine the affair like 
instinct. 

You are right. Madam, in your idea of poor 
Mjlne's poem, which he has addressed to me. 
The piece has a good deal of merit, «3ut it has 
one great fault — it is, by far, too long. Besides, 
my success has encoiiraged such a shoal of ill- 
spawned monsters to crawl into public notice, 
under the title of Scottish Poets, that the very 
term Scottish Poetry borders on the burlesque. 
When I write to Mr. Carfrae, I shall advise him 
rather to try one of his deceased friend's English 
pieces. I am prodigiously hurried with my own 
matters, else I would have requested a perusal 
of all Mylne's poetic performances ; and would 
have offered his friends my assistance in either 
selecting or correcting what would be proper 
for the press. What it is that occupies me so 
r:juch, and perhaps a little oppresses my pre- 
sent spirits, shall fill up a paragraph in some 
future letter. In the mean time, allow me to 
close tUs epistle with a few lines done by a 
friend of mine *****. I give you them, that 
as you have seen the original, you may guess 
whether one or two alterations I have ventured 
to make in them, be any real improvement. 
" Like the ''air plant that from our touch withdraws, 
Shrink, mildly fearful, even from applause, 
Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream. 
And ail you are, my charmmg . . . ., seem. 
Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells disclose, 
^T■ild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows, 
Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind, 
Your form shall be the image of your mind ; 
Your manners shall so true your soul exprtss, 
That all shall long to know the worth they guess : 
Congenial hearts shsU greet with koclred love. 
And even sick'ning envy must approve." 

R. B. 



CLII. 

li) THE REV. PETER CARFRAE. 

[Mylne was a worthy and a modest man he died of 
ax inflammatory fever in the prime of life.] 

1789. 
Kev. Sik, 

I DO not recollect that I have ever felt a se- 
rerer pang of shame, than on looking at the 
ia.*^ of your obliging letter 'which accompanied 
Mr. Mylne's poem. 

I am much to blame : the honour Mr, Mylne 



has done me, greatly enhanced in its value by 

the endearing, though melancholy circumstance, 
of its being the last production of his muse, de 
served a better return. 

I have, as you hint, thought of sending a 
copy of the poem to some periodical publica 
tion; but, on second thoughts, I am afraid, tlia^ 
in the present case, it would be an impro]'-r 
step. My success, perhaps as much accidonta^ 
as mer'*«^d, has brought an inundation of non 
sense under the name of Scottish poetry. Sub 
scription-bills for Scottish poems have so dun- 
ned, and daily do dun the public, that the very 
name is in danger of contempt. For these rea 
sons, if publishing any of Mr. Mylne's poems in 
a magazine, &c., be at all prudent, in my 
opinion it certainly should not be a Scottish 
poem. The profits of the labours of a man of 
genius are, I hope, as honourable as any profits 
whatever ; and Mr. Mylne's relations are most 
justly entitled to that honest harvest, which 
fate has denied himself to reap. But let the 
friends of Mr. Mylne's fame (among whom I 
crave the honour of ranking myself) always 
keep in eye his respectability as a man and as 
a poet, and take no measure that, before the 
world knows anything about him, would risk 
his name and character being classed with the 
fools of the times. 

I have. Sir, some experience of publishing; 
and the way in which I would proceed with Mr. 
Mylne's poem is this : — I would publish^ In two or 
three English and Scottish public papers, any 
one of his English poems which should, by pri- 
vate judges, be thought the most excellent, and 
mention it, at the same time, as one of the pro- 
ductions of a Lothian farmer, of respectable 
character, lately deceased, whose poems his 
friends had it in idea to publish, soon^ by sub- 
scription, for the sake of his numerous fandly ; 
— not in pity to that family, but in justice to 
what his friends think the poetic merits of the 
deceased ; and to secure, m the most effectual 
manner, to those tender connexions, whose r'lghi 
it is, the pecuniary reward of those merits. 

R. B. 



CLiii. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

[Edward Nielsen, whom Burns here introduces to tt 
Moore, was minister of Kirkbean, on the Solwav-t H» 



h© was a jovial man, and loved good cheer, and merry 
company,] 



Ellisland, IZd March, 1789. 



Sir, 



The gentleman who will deliver you this is a 
Mr. Nieison, a worthy clergyman in my neigh- 
\ Diirhood, and a very particular acquaintance 
of mine. As I have troubled him with this 
fuioket, 1 must turn him over t? your goodness, 
to r3corapense him for it in a way in which he 
much needs your assistance, and where you can 
effectaally serve him: — Mr Nielson is on his 
w ay for France, to wait on his Grace of Queens- 
berry, on somse little business of a good deal of 
importance to him, and he wishes for your in- 
structions respecting the most eligible mode of 
travelling, &c., for him, when he has crossed 
the channel, I should not have dared to take 
this liberty with you, but that I am told, by 
those who have the honour of your personal 
acq laintance, that to be a poor honest Scotch- 
man is a letter of recommendation to you, and 
that to have it in your power to serve such a 
character, gives you much pleasure. 

The enclosed ode is a compliment to the me- 
j lory of the late Mrs. Oswald, of Auchencruive. 
f ou, probably, knew her personally, an honour 
of which I cannot boast ; but I spent my early 
years in her neighbourhood, and among her 
servants and tenants. I know that she was de- 
tested with the most heart-felt cordiality. How- 
ever, in the particular part of her conduct which 
roused my poetic wrath, she was much less 
blameable. In January last, on my road to 
Ayrshire, I had put up at Bailie Wigham's in 
Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the place. 
The frost was keen, and the grim evening and 
howling wind were ushering in a night of snow 
and drift. My horse and I were both much fa- 
tigued with the labours of the day, and just as 
my friond the Bailie and I were bidding defiance 
\o the storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels 
th«- funeral pa;ieantry of the late great Mrs. 
Oswald, and poor I am forced to brave all the 
bviirors of the tempestuous night, and jade my 
horde, my young favourite horse, whom I had 
Just christened Pegasus, twelve miles farther 
on, through the wildest moors and hills of Ayr- 
fhire, to New Cumnock, the next inn. The 
powers of poesy and prose sink under me, when 
I would describe what I felt. Suffice it to saj, 
that when a good fire at New Cumnock had so 
far recovered my frozen sinewr., I sat down and 
wrote the enclosed ode 



I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled fiaall| 
with Mr. Creech ; and I must own, that, at last, 
he has been amicable and fair with me. 

R. B 



CLIV. 

TO MR. WILLIAM BURN*^, 

[William Burns was the yoangest brother of the pi.«f* 
he was bred a sadler; went to Longtown, and fiaaUv U 
London, where he died early.] 

Isle, March 25th, 1789. 
I HAVE stolen from my corn-sowing this minute 
to write a line to accompany your shirt and hat, 
for I can no more. Your sister Maria arrived 
yesternight, and begs to be remembered to you. 
Write me every opportunity, never mind post- 
age. My head, too, is as addle as an egg, this 
morning, with dining abroad yesterday. I re- 
ceived yours by the mason. Forgive me this 
foolish-looking scrawl of an epistle. 
I am ever. 

My dear William, 

Yours, 

R. B. 
P. S. If you are not then gone from Longtown, 
I'll write you a long letter, by this day se'en- 
night. If you should not succeed in your tramps, 
don't be dejected, or take any rash step — re- 
turn to us in that case, and we will court for- 
tune's better humour. Remember this, I charge 
you. R. B. 



CLV. 
TO MR. HILL. 

[The Monkland Book Club existed only while Robert 
Riddel, of the Friars-Carse, lived, or Burns had leisura 
to attend: such institutions, when well conducted, are 
very beneficial, when not oppressed by divinity and verse; 
as they sometimes are.] 

Ellisland, 2d April, 1789. 

I WILL make no excuse, my dear Bibliopolua 
(God forgive me for murdering language !) that 
I have sat down to write you on this vile paper. 

It is economy. Sir ; it is that cardinal virtue, 
prudence : so I beg you will sit down, and either 
compose or borrow a panegyric. If you are 
going to borrow, apply to * * * * to compose, or 
rather to compound, something very clever oB 
my remarkable frugality; that I write to one of 
my most esteemed friends on this wretched 
pape^, which was originally intended for thf 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



40t 



venal fist of some drunken exciseman, to take 
iirty notes in a miserable vault of an ale-cel- 
iar. 

Frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand 
blessings — thou cook of fat beef and dainty 
greens ! — thou manufacturer of warm Shetland 
hose, and comfortable surtouts ! — thou old house- 
wife, darning thy decayed stockings with thy 
ancient spectacles on thy aged nose ! — lead me, 
hand me in thy clutching palsied fist, up those 
heights, ana through those thickets, hitherto in- 
accessible, and impervious to my anxious, weary 
feet:- not those Parnassian crags, bleak and 
barren, where the hungry worshippers of fame 
are breathless, clambering, hanging between 
heaven and hell ; but those glittering cliffs of 
Potosi, where the all-sufficient, all powerful 
deity, Wealth, holds his immediate court of joys 
and pleasures ; where the sunny exposure of 
plenty, and the hot walls of profusion, produce 
those blissful fruits of luxury, exotics in this 
world and natives of paradise ! — Thou withered 
sibyl, my sage conductress, usher me into thy 
refulpent, adored presence ! — The power, splen- 
did and potent as he now is, was once the puling 
nurpling of thy faithful care, and tender arms! 
Call me thy son, thy cousin, thy kinsman, or 
favourite, and adjure the god by the scenes of 
his infant years, no longer to repulse me as a 
stranger, or an alien, but to favour me with his 
peculiar countenance and protection ? — He daily 
bestows his greatest kindness on the undeserv- 
ing and the worthless — assure him, that I bring 
ample documents of meritorious demerits! 
Pledge yourself for me, that, for the glorious 
cause of Lucre, I will do anything, be anything 
— but the horse-leech of private oppression, or 
the vulture of public robbery ! 

But to descend from heroics. 

1 want a Shakspeare ; I want likewise an 
English dictionary — Johnson's, I suppose, is 
best. In these and all my prose commissions, the 
cheapest is always the best for me. There is a 
imall debt of honour that I owe Mr. Robert 
rieghorn, in Saughton Mills, my worthy friend, 
and your well-wisher. Please give him, and 
urge him to take it, the first time you see him, 
ten shillings worth of anything you have to sell, 
l,nd place it to my account. 

The library scheme that I mentioned to you, 
{S -already begun, under the direction of Captain 
R- idel. There is another in emulation of it 
going on at C.oseburn, under the auspices of Mr, 
Monteitb of Closeburn, which will be on a 



greater scale than ours. Capt. Riddel gave hi. 
infant society a great many of his old books, 
else I had written y(u on that subject; but 
one of these days, I shall trouble you with a 
commission for "The Monkland Friendly SociO' 
ty" — a copy of The Spectator, Mirror, and 
Lounger, Man of Feeling, Man of the Wcrld^ 
Guthrie's Geographical Grammar, with some re 
ligious pieces, will likely be our first order. 

When I grow richer, I will write to you on 
gilt post, to make amends for this sheet. Al 
present, every guinea has a five guinea erran<l 
with, My dear Sir, 

Your faithful, poor, but honest, friend, 

R. B 



CLVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[Some lines which extend, but fail to finish the skettu 
contained in this letter, will be found elsewhere in this 
publication.] 

Ellisland, Uh April, 1789. 

I NO sooner hit on any poetic plan or fancy, 
but I wish to send it to you : and if knowing 
and reading these give half the pleasure to you, 
that communicating them to you gives to me, I 
am satisfied. 

I have a poetic whim in my head, which I at 
present dedicate, or rather inscribe to the Right 
Hon. Charles James Fox; but how long that 
fancy may hold, I cannot say. A few of the 
first lines, I have just rough-sketched as fol 
lows : 

SKETCH. • 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and their 

white ; 
How genius, the illustrious father of fiction. 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contra'lio 

tion — 
I sing: If these mortals, the critics, shonli bna- 

tle, 
I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. 

But now for a patron, whose name and whoM 
glory. 
At once may illustrate and honour my story 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits , 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mer. 
lucky hits : 



404 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENrB 



Witb knowledge so vast, and with judgment so 

strong, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far 

wrong ; 
With passion so potent, and fancies so bright, 
•?o nan with the half of 'em ere went quite 

right ; 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

On the 20th current I hope to have the ho- 
nour -J assuring you in person, how sincerely I 
am- R. B. 



CLVII. 
TO MR. WILLIAM BURNS, 

SADLER, 
CARE OF MR. WRIGHT, CARRIER, LONGTOWN. 

[" Never to despair" was a favourite saying with 
Burns : and " firm resolve," he held, with Young, to be 
"the column of true majesty in man."] 

Isle, 15th April, 1789. 
My dear William, 
I AM extremely sorry at the misfortune of your 
legs ; I beg you will never let any worldly con- 
cern interfere with the more serious matter, 
the safety of your life and limbs. I have not 
time in these hurried days to write you any- 
thing other than a mere how d'ye letter. I will 
only repeat my favourite quotation : — 

"What proves the hero truly great 
Is never, never to despair." 

My house shall be your welcome home ; and as 
I know your prudence (would to God you had 
resolution equal to your prudence !) if anywhere 
at a distance from friends, you should need 
money, you know my direction by post. 

The enclosed is from Gilbert, brought by your 
sister Nanny. It was unluckily forgot. Yours 
ro Gilbert goes by post. — I heard from them 
r^^terday, they are all well. 

Adieu. 

R. B. 



CLVIII. 
TO MRS. M'MURDO, 

DRUMLANRIG. 

Of thiB iccompliphed lady, Mrs. M'Murdo, of Drum 
n-ig, and her daughtors, something has bernsaid in the 



notes on the soi^s : he poem alluded to was ths song 'r>, 
" Bonnie Jean."] 

Ellisland, 2d May, 1789. 
Madam, 

I HAVE finished the piece which had the happj 
fortune to be honoured with your approbation ; 
and never did little miss with more sparkling 
pleasure show her applauded sampler to partial 
mamma, than I now send my poem to yon and 
Mr. M'Murdo if he is returned to Drumlanrig 
You cannot easily imagine what thin skinned 
animals — what sensitive plants poor poets are. 
How do we shrink into the embittered corner of 
self-abasement, when neglected or condemned 
by those to whom we look up ! and how do we, 
in erect importance, add another cubit to oui 
stature on being noticed and applauded by those 
whom we honour &nd respect ! My late visit to 
Drumlanrig has, I can tell you, Madam, given 
me a balloon waft up Parnassus, where on my 
fancied elevation I regard my poetic self with no 
small degree of complacency. Surely with all 
their sins, the rhyming tribe are not ungrateful 
creatures. — I recollect your goodness to your 
humble guest — I see Mr. M'Murdo adding to the 
politeness of the gentleman, the kindness of & 
friend, and my heart swells as it would burst, 
with warm emotions and ardent wishes ! It may 
be it is not gratitude — it may be a mixed sen- 
sation. That strange, Bhifting,^oubling ani- 
mal MAN is so generally, at best, but a negative, 
often a worthless creature, that we cannot see 
real goodness and native worth without feeling 
the bosom glow with sympathetic approbation. 
With every sentiment of grateful respect, 
I have the honour to be. 
Madam, 

Your obliged and grateful humble servant, 

R. B 



CLIX. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

[Honest Jamie Thomson, who shot the hare reca'isf 
she browsed with her companions on his father'i 
"wheat-braird," had no idea he was pulling down snch 
a burst of icilignation on his head as this letter with th« 
poem which it enclosed expresses.] ^ 

Ellisland, Uh May, 1789. 
My dear Sir, 
Your duty-free favour of the 26th April I re« 
ceived two days agQ ; I will not say I perused if 
with pleasure ; that is the cold compliment of 



OE ROBERT BURNS 



4C^ 



ceremony ; I perused it, Sir, with delicious sa- 
tisfaction; — in short, it is such a letter, that not 
/ou, nor your friend, lut the legislature, by ex- 
press proviso in their postage laws, should frank. 

A letter informed with the soul of friendship 
Is such an honour to human nature, that they 
Bhould order it free ingress and egress to and 
from their bags and mails, as an encourage- 
ment and mark of distinction to supereminent 
tirtue. 

I have just put the last hand to a little poem 
which I think will be something to your taste. 
One morning lately, as I was out pretty early 
In the fields, sowing some grass seeds, I heard 
the burst of a shot from a neighbouring planta- 
tion, and presently a poor little wounded hare 
came crippling by me. You will guess my in- 
dignation ai the inhuman fellow who could shoot 
a hare at this season, when all of them have 
young ones. Indeed there is something in that 
business of destroying for our sport individuals 
in the animal creation that do not injure us ma- 
terially, which I could never reconcile to my 
Ideas of virtue. 

Inhuman mai ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ! 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 
&c. &c. 

Let me know how you like my poem. I am 
doubtful whether it would not be an improve- 
ment to keep out the last stanza but one alto- 
gether. 

Cruikshank is a glorious production of the 
author of man. You. he, and the noble Colonel 
of the Crochallan Fencibles are to me 

"Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my heart " 

I have a good mind to make verses on you 
ill, to the tune of ^'' Three guid fellows ayont the 
glm:' R. B. 



CLX, 

TO MR. SAMUEL BROWN. 

[Sainuei Browc 'A^as brother to the poet's mother : he 
IMms to have been a joyous sort of person, who loved a 
ok», and understood double meanings.] 

Mossgiel, ^th May, 1789. 
Dear Uncle, 
This, I hope, will find you and your conjugal 
»ok >-fell ow in your g "wd old way ; I am impa- 



tient to know if the Ailsa fowling be commenced 
for this season y^t, as I want three or fouj 
stones of feathers, a^d 1 hope you will bespeak 
them for me. It would be a vain attempt foe 
me to enumerate the various transactions J 
have been engaged in since I saw you last, b^t 
this know, — I am engaged in a smuggling tr^oa, 
and God knows if ever uny pool man K%^t- 
rienced better returns, two for one, but as freight 
and delivery have turned out so dear, I am 
thinking of taking out a license and beginning 
in fair trade. I have taken a farm on the bor- 
ders of the Nith, and in imitation of the old 
Patriarchs, get men-servants and maid-ser- 
vants, and flocks and herds, and beget sons and 
daughters. 

Your obedient nephew, 

R. B 



CLXI. 
TO RICHARD BROWN. 

[Burns was much attached to Brown ; and one regiou 
that an inconsiderate word should have estranged the 
haughty sailor.] 

Mauchline, 21st Mag, 1789. 
My dear Friend, 

I WAS in the country by accident, and hearing 
of your safe arrival^ I could not resist the temp- 
tation of wishing you joy on your return, wish- 
ing you would write to me before you sail again, 
wishing you would always set me down as your 
bosom friend, wishing you long life and pros- 
perity, and that every good thing may attend 
you, wishing Mr.s. Brown and your little ones 
as free of the evils of this world, as is consistent 
with humanity, wishing you and she were to 
make two at the ensuing lying-in, with which 
Mrs. B. threatens very soon to favc^ir me, wish 
ing I had longer time to write to you at pre- 
sent ; and, finally, wishing that if there is tc b« 
another state of existence, Mr. B., Mrs, B,, ouj 
little ones, and both families, and ycu nnd I, 
in some snug retreat, may make a jovial paitj 
to all eternity ! 

My direction is at Ellisland, near Dumfries 
Yours, 

B. P 



iCO 



GENEEAL CORRESPONDENCE 



CLXII. 

TO MR. JAMES hXmILTON. 

^JaiueB Hamilton, grocer, in Glasgow, interested hiti- 
•If early in the fortunes of the poet, j 

Ellisland, 26th May, 1789. 
Deak Sik, 

I SENi) you by John Glover, carrier, the ac- 
Sdunt for Mr. Turnbull, as I suppose you know 
Ms address. 

I would fain offer, my dear Sir, a word of 
jympathy with your misfortunes ; but it is a 
tender string, and I know not how to touch it. 
[t is easy to flourish a set of high-flown senti- 
ments on the subjects that would give great 
satisfaction to — a breast quite at ease ; but as 
ONE observes, who was very seldom mistaken in 
the theory of life, • ' The heart knoweth its own 
sorrows, and a stranger intermeddleth not there- 
with." 

Among some distressful emergencies that I 
have e^xperienced in life, I ever laid this down 
as my foundation of comfort — That he who has 
lived the life of an honest man, has by no means 
lived in vain I 

With every wish for your welfare and future 
success, 

I am, my dear Sir, 

Sincerely yours, 

R. B. 



CLXin. 

TO WILLIAM CREECH, ESQ. 

[The poetic address to the '<venomed stang" of the 
toothache seems to have come into existence about this 
time.] 



Sir, 



Ellisland, 2,0th May, 1789. 



I HAD intended to have troubled you with a 
long letter, but at present the delightful sensa- 
tions of an omnipotent toothache so engross all 
my inner man, as to put it out of my power 
even to write nonsense. However, as in duty 
bound, I approach my bookseller with an offer- 
tng in my hand — a few poetic clinches, and a 
Bong: — ^^0 expect any other kind of offering 
from the Rhyming Tribe would be to know them 
much less than you do. I do not pretend that 
there is much merit in these morceaux, but I 
have two reasons for sending them ; primo, they 
Arc mostly ill-natured, so are in unison with my 
present feelings, while fifty troops of internal 



spirits are driving post from ear to ear alcsg 
my jaw-bones ; and secondly, they aie so short, 
that you cannot leave off in the middle, and s« 
hurt my pride in the idea that you found aiiV 
work of mine too heavy to get through. 

I have a request to beg of you, and I not onij 
beg of you, but conjure you, by all your wishes 
and by all your hopes, that the muse will spar^ 
the satiric wink in the moment of your foible? 
that she will warble the song of rapture rouna 
your hymeneal couch ; and that she will shed 
on your turf the honest tear of elegiac grati- 
tude ! Grant my request as speedily as possible 
— send me by the very first fly or coach for this 
place three copies of the last edition of my 
poems, which place to my account. 

Now may the good things of prose, and the 
good things of "^erse, come among thy hands, 
until they be -uiled with the good thitiys of th»s 
life, prayeth R. B 



CLXIV. 
TO MR. M'AULEY. 

[The poet made the acquaintance of Mr. M'Auley, ol 
Dumbarton, in one of his northern tours, — he was intro 
duced by his friend Kennedy.] 

Ellisland, 4th June, 1789. 
Dear Sir, 

Though I am not without my fears respect- 
ing my fate, at that grand, universal inquest of 
right and wrong, commonly called The Last Day, 
yet I trust there is one sin, which that arch- 
vagabond, Satan, who I understand is to be 
king's evidence, cannot throw in my teeth, I 
mean ingratitude. There is a certain pretty 
large quantum of kindness for which I remain, 
and from inability, I fear, must still remain, 
your debtor ; but though unable to repay the 
debt, I assure you, Sir, I shall ever warmly 
remember the obligation. It gives me the sin- 
cerest pleasure to hear by my old acquaintance! 
Mr. Kennedy, that you are, in immortal Allat e 
language, "Hale, and weel, and living;" anu 
that your charming family are well, and pro 
mising to be an amiable and respectable addi- 
tion to the company of performers, whom the 
Great Manager of the Drama of Man is bring- 
ing into action for the succeeding age. 

With respect to my welfare, a subject in which 
you once warmly and effectively interested your- 
self, I am here in my old way, holding vaj 
plough, marking the growth of my corn, or th« 



health of my dairy ; and at times sauntering by 
the delightful windings of the Nith, on the mar- 
gin of "whi ch I have built my humble domicile, 
pr;i\ing for seasonable weather, or holding an 
.liM-igue with the muses; the only gipsies with 
sshom I have now any intercourse. As I am 
ent'^red. into the holy state of matrimony, I trust 
mr fac is turned completely Zion-ward ; and 
a* h is a rule with all honest fellows to repeat no 
grievances, I hope that the little poetic licenses 
of forfuer days will of course fall under the 
oblivious influence of some good-natured statute 
of celestial prescription. In my family devo- 
tioa, which, like a good Presbyterian, I occa- 
sionally give to my household folks, I am ex- 
tremely fond of that psalm, " Let not the errors 
of my youth," &c., and that other, "Lo, children 
arp God's h*»ritage," kc, m which last Mrs. 
Burns, wno b^ thb oye o^as a, gloxioub -'Wv^od- 
n<>te wild" at either old song or psalmody, joins 
me with the pathos of Handel's Messiah. 

R. B. 



CLXV. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

[The following high-minded letter may be regarded as 
ti sermon on domestic morality preached by one of the 
experienced.] 

UUisland, 8th June, 1789. 
My dear Friend, 

I AM perfectly ashamed of myself when I look 
a^ the date of your last. It is not that I forget 
the friend of my heart and the companion of my 
peregrinations ; but I have been condemned to 
drudgery beyond sufferance, though not, thank 
God, beyond redemption. I have had a collec- 
tion of poems by a lady, put into my hands to 
prepare them for the press ; which horrid task, 
with sowijig corn with my own hand, a parcel 
of masons, wrights, plasterers, &c., to attend to, 
roaming on business through Ayrshire — all this 
was agaioijt me, and the very first dreadful ar- 
ticle was ^f itself too much for me. 

' 3lt 1 have not had a moment to spare from 
incf Bfiant t>jil since the 8th. Life, my dear Sir, 
is ft f»>rica8 matter. You know by experience 
tuA. a man's individual self is a good deal, but 
belie \re me, a wife and family of children, when- 
ever you have the honour to be a husband and 
a father, will show you that your present and 
most anxious hours of solitude are spent on 
trifles. The welfare of those vvb'^ are very dear 
fe» us, whose only support, hope and stay we 



CLXVI. 

TO MR. M'MURDO. 

[John M'Murdo has been already mentioned as cii© ot 
Burns's firmest friends : his table at Drumlanrig wai 
always spread at the poet's coming ; ncr was it uncheerad 
by the presence of the lady of the house and her daugh 
ters.] 

Ellisland, l^th June, 1789 
Sir, 
A POET and a beggar are, in so many pointa 
of view, alike, that one might take tnem for th« 



are — this, to a generous mind, is another sort 
of more important object of care than any con- 
cerns whatever which centre merely in the indi- 
viduaL On the other hand, let no young, un- 
married, rakehelly dog among you, make a 
song of his pretended liberty and freedom frow 
care. If the relations we stand in to king, 
country, kindred, and friends, be anything bai 
the visionary fancies of dreaming metaphysi> 
cians ; if religion, virtue, magnanimity, gene- 
rosity, humanity and justice, be aught but empty 
sounds ; then the man who may be said to live f 
only for others, for the beloved, honourable 
female, whose tender faithful embrace endears 
life, and for the helpless little innocents who are 
to be the men and women, the worshippers of 
his God, the subjects of his king, and the sup- 
port nay +he v*^ry vital existence of his country 
m thy eniiUing .^.ge , -coLi^)arc .sUCk j, mt*u wic^ 
any fellow whatever, who, whether he bustle and 
push in business among labourers, clerks, states- 
men ; or whether he roar and rant, and drink anu 
sing in taverns — a fellow over whose grave no 
one will breathe a single heigh-ho, except from 
the cobweb-tie of what is called good-fellow- 
ship — who has no view nor aim but what ter- 
minates in himself — if there be any grovelling 
earthborn wretch of our species, a renegado to 
common sense, who would fain believe that the 
noble creature man, is no better than a sort of 
fungus, generated out of nothing, nobody knows 
how, and soon dissipated in nothing, nobody 
knows where ; such a stupid beast, such a crawl 
ing reptile, might balance the foregoing unex- 
aggerated comparison, but no one else would 
have the patience. 

Forgive me, my dear Sir, for this long silence. 
To make you amends, I shall send you soon, and 
more encouraging still, without any postage, 
one or two rhymes of my later manufacture. 

R B. 



same individual character under different de- 
eignations ; were it not that though, with a 
trifling poetic license, most poets may be styled 
beggars, yet the converse of the proposition 
does not hold, that every beggar is a poet. In 
one particular, however, they remarkably agree ; 
if you help either the one or the other to a mug 
of ale, or the picking of a bone, they will very 
willingly repaj you with a song. This occurs 
to me at present, as I have just despatched a 
well-lined rib of John Kirkpatrick's Highlander ; 
a bargain for which I am indebted to you, in 
the styla of our ballad printers, "Five excel- 
lent new songs." [fhe enclosed is nearly my 
newest song, and one that has cost me some 
pains, though that is but an equivocal mark of 
its excellence. Two or three others, which I 
have by me. shall do themselves the honour to 
wait on your after leisure: petitioners for ad- 
mittance into favour must not harass the con- 
descension of their benefactor. 

You see. Sir, what it is to patronize a poet. 
'Tis like being a magistrate in a petty borough ; 
you do them the favour to preside in their coun- 
cil for one year, and your name bears the pre- 
fatory stigma of Bailie for life. 

With, not the compliments, but the best 
wishes, the sincerest prayers of the season for 
you, that you may see many and happy years 
with Mrs. M'Murdo, and your family; two 
blessings by the bye, to which your rank does 
not, by any means, entitle you ; a loving wife 
and fine family being almost the only good 
things of this life to which the farm-house and 
cottage have' an exclusive right, 

I have the honour to be. 
Sir, 
Tonr much indebted and very humble servant, 

R. B. 



CLXVII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

iTbe devil the pjpa, and the Pretender darkened the 
lermons, for m ne than a century, of many sound divines 
IK the north. As a Jacobite, Burns disliked to hear 
Prince Charles called the Pretender, and as a man of a 
koleranf nature, he disliked to hear the Pope treated un- 
like a gentleman : his notions legavding Satan are re- 
sorded in his inimitable address.] 

ElUsland, 21st June, 1789. 
Deak Madam, 
Will you take the effusions, the miserable 
■•ffusLons of low sjirits, just as they flow from 



their bitter spring ? T know not of any parti 
culat cause for this worst of all my foes beset 
ting me ; but for some time my soul has bees 
beclouded with a thickening atmosphere of evi 
imaginations and gloomy presages. 

Monday Evening. 

I have just heard Mr. Kirkpatrick preach a 
sermon. He is a man famous for his benevo- 
lence, and I revere him ; l)ut from such ideas 
of my Creator, good Lord deliver me ! Religion 
my honoured friend, is surely a simple business, 
as it equally concerns the ignorant and the 
learned, the poor and the rich. That there ia 
an incomprehensible Great Being, to whcm I 
owe my existence, and that he must be inti- 
mately acquainted with the operations and pro- 
gress of the internal machinery, and consequent 
outward deportment of this creature which he 
has made ; these are, I think, self-evident pro- 
positions. That there is a real and eternal dis- 
tinction between virtue and vice, and conse- 
quently, that I am an accountable creature ; 
that from the seeming nature of the human 
mind, as well as from the evident imperfection, 
nay, positive injustice, in the administration of 
affairs, both in the natural and moral worlds, 
there must be a retributive scene of existence 
beyond the grave ; must, I think, be allowed 
by every one who will give himself a moment's 
reflection. I will go farther, and affirm that 
from the sublimity, excellence, and purity of his 
doctrine and precepts, unparalleled by all the 
aggregated wisdom and learning of many pre- 
ceding ages, though, to appearance, he himself 
was the obscurest and most illiterate of our 
species ; therefore Jesus Christ was from Goa. 

Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases 
the happiness of others, this is my criterion of 
goodness ; and whatever injures society at large, 
or any individual in it, this is my measure of 
iniquity. 

What think you, madam, of my creed ? I 
trust that I have said nothing that will lessen 
me in the eye of one, whose good opinion I value 
almost next to the approbation of my own mind 

R. B. 



CLXVIII. 
TO MR. — 



[The name of ^\z person to whom th*» foiiowin^ .ettei 
is addressed is unknown : he seems, from his letter tt 
Burns to have Deen intimate witii the unfortunate poet 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



40^ 



llo^9^t Fergusson, who, n richness of conversation and 
ple-»itude of fancy, reminded him, he said, of Robert 

Burns.] 

1789. 
Mr dkslB Sir, 

Tnt b zrij of a farmer in this particular sea- 
6UD e/id ue indolence of a poet at all times and 
(seasons, will, I hope, plead my excuse for ne- 
glecting so long to answer your obliging letter 
of the 5th of August. 

That you have done well it quitting your la- 
borious concern in * * * *, I do not doubt ; the 
weighty reasons you mention, were, I hope, very, 
and deservedly indeed, weighty ones, and your 
health is a matter of the last importance ; but 
whether the remaining proprietors of the paper 
have also done well, is what I much doubt. 
The ^ "^ * *, so far as I was a reader, exhibited 
Buch a brilliancy of point, such an elegance of 
paragraph, and such a variety of intelligence, 
that I can hardly conceive it possible to con- 
tinue a daily paper in the same degree of excel- 
lence : 1 ut if there was a man who had abilities 
equal to the task, that man's assistance the 
proprietors have lost. 

When I received your letter T was transcrib- 
^g for * * -^ *, my letter to the magistrates of 
the Canongate, Edinburgh, begging their per- 
mission to place a tombstone over poor Fergus- 
Bon, and their edict in consequence of my peti- 
tion, but now I shall send them to * * ■'^ * * *. 
Poor Fergusson ! If there be a life beyond the 
grave, which I trust there is ; and if there be a 
good God presiding over all nature, which I am 
sure there is ; thou art now enjoying existence 
La a glorious world, where worth of the heart 
ak/ne is distinction in the man ; where riches, 
deprived of all their pleasure-purchasing powers, 
return to their native sordid matter ; where 
titles and honours are the disregarded reveries of 
an id' ^ dream ; and where that heavy virtue, 
which .8 the negative consequence of steady 
Julness, and those thoughtless, though often 
destructive follies which are the unavoidable 
aberrations of frail human nature, will be 
thi own into equal oblivion as if they had never 
been ! 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! So soon as your present 
views and schemes are concentered in an aim, 
I shall be f'ad to hear from you ; as your wel- 
fare and happinesa is by no means a subject in- 
wfferent to 

Yours, 

R. B. 



CLXIX. 

TO MISS WILLIAMS. 

[Helen Maria Williams acknowledged this letter, with 
the critical pencilling, on her poem on the Slave Trade, 
which it enclosed : she agreed, she said, with all hi| 
objections, save one, but considered his praise toe high.j 

ElUsland, 1789. 
Madam, 

Of the many problems in the nature of that 
wonderful creature, man, this is one of the most 
extraordinary, that he shall go on from day tol 
day, from week to week, from month to monthi 
or perhaps from year to year, suffering a hun^ 
dred times more in an hour from the impotent 
consciousness of neglecting what he ought to do, 
than the very doing of it would cost him. I am 
deeply indebted to you, first for a most elegant 
poetic compliment ; then for a polite, obliging 
letter ; and, lastly, for your excellent poem on 
the Slave Trade ; and yet, wretch that I am ! 
though the debts were debts of honour, and tha 
creditor a lady, I have put off and put off even 
the very acknowledgment of the obligation, un- 
til you must indeed be the very angel I take you 
for, if you can forgive me. 

Your poem I have read with the highest plea- 
sure. I have a way whenever I read a book, I 
mean a book in our own trade, Madam, a poetic 
one, and when it is my own property, that I take 
a pencil and mark at the ends of verses, or note 
on margins and odd paper, little criticisms of 
approbation or disapprobation as I peiase along. 
I will make no apology for presenting you with 
a few unconnected thoughts that occurred to me 
in my repeated perusals of your poem. I want 
to show you that I have honesty enough to tell 
you what I take to be truths, even when they 
are not quite on the side of approbation ; and 
I do it in the firm faith that you have equal 
greatness of mind to hear them with pleasure. 

I had lately the honour of a letter from Dr^ 
Moore, where he tells me that he has sent m« 
some books : they are not yet come to hand, but 
I hear they are on the way. 

Wishing you all success in your progress in 
the path of fame ; and that you may equally 
escape the danger of stumbling through incaU' 
tious speed, or losing ground through loitering 
neglect. R. B 



no 



GENERAL CORBESPONDEN CE 



CLXX. 

TO MR. JOHN LOGAN. 

[The Kirk's Alarm, to which this letter alludes, has 
dttle of the spirit of malice and drollery, so rife in his 
»arlier lOintroversial compositions.] 

Mlisland, near Dumfries, 1th Aug. 1789. 
Dear Sir, 
I. INTENDED to have written you long ere now, 
*nd as I told you, I had gotten three stanzas and 
a, half on my way in a poeti 3 epistle to you ; but 
•-hat old enemy of all ^ooc? works, the devil, threw 
me intc a prosaic mire, and for the soul of me I 
cannot get out of it. I dare not write you a 
long letter, as I am going to intrude on your 
time with a long ballad. I have, as you will 
shortly see, finished " The Kirk's Alarm ;" but 
now that it is done, and that I have laughed 
ouoo 01 „«ric^ at \,L& c^riCeiv.- in .,om.. of t^a 
stanzas, I am determined not to let it get into 
the public ; so I send you this copy, the first 
that I have sent to Ayrshire, except some few 
of the stanzas, which I wrote ofi" in embryo for 
Gavin Hamilton, under the express provision 
and request that you will only read it to a few 
of us, and do not on any account give, or permit 
to be taken, any copy of the ballad. If I could 
be of any service to Dr. M'Gill, I would do it, 
though it should be at a much greater expense 
than irritating a few bigoted priests, but I am 
afraid serving him in his present embarras is a 
task too hard for me. I have enemies enow, 
God knows, though I do not wantonly add to the 
number. Still as I think there is some merit in 
two or three of the thoughts, I send it to you as 
a small, but sincere testimony how much, and 
with what respectful esteem, 

I am, dear Sir, 
Your obliged humble servant, 
R. B 

CLXXI. 

TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

[ "i'he poetic epistle of worthy Janet Little was of small 
ftfieount : r^ox was the advice of Or. Moore, to abandon 
ti?« Scottish stanza and dialect, and adopt the measure 
Rud »angi age of mcdern English poetry, better inspired 
tben ths? strains of the milkmaid; for such was Jenny 
L.ittie.] 

Ellisland, 6th Sept., 1789. 
Dear Madam, 
1 HAVE mentioned in my last my appointment 
o the Excise, and the birth of little Frank ; 
Vfho, by the bye, I trust vill be no discredit to 



the honourable name of Wallace, as he has a 
fine manly countenance, and a figure that might 
do credit to a little fellow two months older ; 
and likewise an excellent good temper, though 
when he pleases he has a pipe, only net quite 
so loud as the horn that his immortal namesake 
blew as a signal to take out the pin of Stii^iBg 
bridge. 

I had some time ago an epistle, part poeti©, 
and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs. J. 
Little, a very ingenious, but modest composition. 
I should have written her as she requested, but 
for the hurry of this new business. I have heard 
of her and her compositions in this country ; 
and I am happy to add, always to the honour of 
her character. The fact is, I know not well hovf 
to write to her : I should sit down to a sheet of 
paper that T knew not how to stain. I am no 
aa.b U.C finedrawn loUer-wiitiLg ; &^a, fejs:uep\i 
when prompted by friendship or gratitude, or, 
which happens extremely rarely, inspired by the 
muse (I know not her name) that presides over 
epistolary writing, I sit down, when necessitated 
to write, as I would sit down, to beat hemp. 

Some parts of your letter of the 20th August, 
struck me with the most melancholy concern 
for the state of your mind at present. 

Would I could write you a letter of comfort, 
I would sit down to it with as much pleasure, 
as I would to write an epic poem of my own 
composition that should equal the Iliad. Reli- 
gion, my dear friend, is the true comfort ! A 
strong persuasion in a future state of existence ; 
a proposition so obviously probable, that, set- 
ting revelation aside, every nation and people, 
so far as investigation has reached, for at least 
near four thousand years, have, in some mode 
or other, firmly believed it. In vain would we 
reason and pretend to doubt. I have myself 
done so to a very daring pitch ; but, when I re- 
flected, that I was opposing the most arden 
wishes, and the most darling hopes of good men, 
and flying in the face of all human belief, in 
all ages, I was shocked at my own coniact. 

I know not whether I have ever sent you tha 
following lines, or if you have ever seen them ; 
but it is one of my favourite quotations, which 
I keep constantly by me in my progress through 
life, in the language of the book of Job, 

" Against the day of battle and of war" — 

spoken of religion : 

" 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning brigbt, 
'Tie this, that gilds the horror ot our nicnt. 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



411 



When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few, 

When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; 

Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 

Disarms affliction, or repels his dart ; 

Witliin the breast bids purest raptures rise, 

Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." 

I have been busy with Zeluco. The Doctor is 
J J obliging as to request my opinion of it ; and 
1 have been revolving in my mind some kind of 
criticisms on novel- writing, but it is a depth be- 
yond my research. I shall however digest my 
thoughts on the subject as well as I can. Zeluco 
is a most sterling performance. 

Farewell ! A Dieu, le hon Dim, je votis com- 
Blende. E.. B. 



CLXXII. 

CARSE. 

[The "Whistle alluded to in this letter was contended for 
un the 16th of October, 1790 — the successful competitor, 
Kergusson, of Craigdarroch, was killed by a fall from his 
horse, some time after the " jovial contest."] 



Sir, 



Ellisland, l%th Oct., 1789. 



Big with the idea of this important day at 
Friars-Carse, I have watched the elements and 
Bkies in the full persuasion that they would an- 
nounce it to the astonished world by some phe- 
nomena of terrific portent. — Yesternight until a 
very late hour did I wait with anxious horror, 
for the appearance of some comet firing half the 
sky ; or aerial armies of sanguinary Scandina- 
vians, darting athwart the startled heavens, 
rapid as the ragged lightning, and horrid as 
those convulsions of nature that bury nations. 

The elements, however, seem to take the mat- 
ter very quietly : they did not even usher in this 
morning with triple suns and a shower of blood, 
symbolical of the three potent heroes, and the 
mighty claret-shed of the day. — For me, as 
Thomson in his Winter says of the storm — I 
shall "Hear astonished, and astonished sing" 

The whistle and the man ; I sing 
The man that won the whistle, &c. 

Here are we met, three merry boys, 
Three merry boys I trow are we ; 

And mony a night we've merry been, 
And mony mae we hope to b<i. 

Wha first shall rise 'o gang awa, 
A « uckold coward loun is he : 



Wha last beside his chair shall fa*, 
He is the king amang us three. 

To leave the heights of Parnassus and come t« 
the humb]^ vale of prose. — I have some misgiv 
ings that I take too much upon me, when I re 
quest you to get your guest. Sir Robert Lowrie, 
to frank the two enclosed covers for me, tb« 
one of them to Sir William Cunningham, of 
Robertland, Bart, at Kilmarnock, — the ctlier ta 
Mr. Allan Masterton, Writing-Master, Edin- 
burgh. The first has a kindred claim on Si* 
Robert, as being a brother Baronet, and likewise 
a keen Foxite ; the other is one of the worthiest 
men in the worlf', and a man of real genius ; so, 
allow me to say, he has a fraternal claim on you. 
I want them franked for to-morrow, as I cannot 
get them to the post to-night. — I shall send a 
iorvu/Mi; again fei the^i in .ihe e -sain;^ W "^^ hin^ 
that your head may be crowned with laurels to 
night, and free from aches to-morrow, 
I have the honour to be. Sir, 
Your deeply indebted humble Servant, 

R. B 



CLXXIII. 



TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL. 

[Robert Riddel kept one of those present pests of 
society — an album — into which Burns copied the Linei 
on the Hermitage, and the Wounded Hare.] 



Ellisland, 1789. 



SlE, 



I WISH from my inmost soul it were in my 
power to give you a more substantial gratifica 
tion and return for all the p' jodness to the poet, 
than transcribing a few of his idle -hymes. — 
However, " an old song," though to a proverb 
an instance of insignificance, is generally the 
only coin a poet has to pay with. 

If my poems which I have transcribed, a^ndl 
mean still to transcribe into your book, were 
equal to the grateful respect and high esteem \ 
bear for the gentleman to whom I present theE'.^ 
they would be the finest poems in the language. 
— As they are, they will at least be a testimoaj 
with what sincerity I have the honour to be, 
Sir, 
Your devoted humlJe Servant, 

R. B 



412 



GEJNEKAL CORKESPONDENCB 



CLXXIV. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

[The ignominy of a poet becoming a gauger seems ever 
to have been present to the mind of Burns — but those 
naoving thingf ca'd wives and weans have a strong in- 
Itasnce on the actions of man.] 

Ellisland, \st Nov. 1789. 
My dear Friend, 

1 HAD written you long ere now, could I have 
guessed where to find you, for I am sure you 
have more good sense than to waste the precious 
days of vacation time in^ the dirt of business 
and Edinburgh. — Wherever you are, God bless 
you, and lead you not into t^'mntation, but de- 
liver you from evil ! 

I do not know if I have informed you that I 
am now appointed to an excise division, in the 
middle of which my house and farm lie. In 
this I was extremely lucky. Without ever hav- 
ing been an expectant, as they call their jour- 
neymen excisemen, I was directly planted down 
to all intents and purposes an officer of excise ; 
there to flourish and bring forth fruits — worthy 
of repentance. 

I know not how the word exciseman, or still 
more opprobrious, gauger, will sound in your 
ears. I too have seen the day when my auditory 
nerves would have felt very delicately on this 
Bubject; but a wife and children are things 
which have a wonderful power in blunting these 
kind of sensations. Fifty pounds a year for 
life, and a provision for widows and orphans, 
you will allow is no bad settlement for a poet. 
For the ignominy of the profession, I have the 
encouragement which I once heard a recruiting 
sergeant give to a numerous, if not a respect- 
able audience, in the streets of Kilmarnock. — 
" Gentlemen, for your further and better en- 
couragement, I can assure you that our regi- 
ment is the most blackguard corps under the 
crown, and consequently with us an honest fel- 
low has the surest, chance for preferment." 

Yon need not doubt that I find several very 
unpleasant and disagreeable circumstances, in 
tftj business ; but I am tired with and disgusted 
at ine language of complaint against the evils 
of life Human existence in the most favourable 
ftituatic ns does not abound with pleasures, and 
has its inconveniences and ills ; capricious fool- 
ish man mistakes these inconveniences and 
Ills as if they were the peculiar property of his 
particular situation; and hence that eternal 
fickleness, that love of change, which has ruined, 



and daily does ruin many a fine fellow, as well 
as many a blockhead, and is almost, withouj 
exception, a constant source of disappointmen 
and misery. 

I long to hear from you how you go on — not 
so much in business as in life. Are you pretty 
well satisfied with your own exertions, and to- 
lerably at ease in your intsrnal reflectioag? 
'Tis much to be a great character as a lawyer^ 
but beyond comparison more to be a grea* 
character as a man. That you may be both the 
one and the other is the earnest wish, and that 
you will be both is the firm persuasion of. 
My dear Sir, &c. 

R. B. 



CLXXV. 

TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 

[With this letter closes the correspondence of Robail 
Burns and Richard Brown.] 

Ellisland, 4:th November, 1789. 
I HAVE been so hurried, my ever dear friend, 
that though I got both your letters, I have not 
been able to command an hour to answer them 
as I wished ; and even now, you are to look on 
this as merely confessing debt, and craving days. 
Few things could have given me so much plea- 
sure as the news that you were once more safe 
and sound on terra firma, and happy in that 
place where happiness is alone to be found, in 
the fireside circle. May the benevolent Direc- 
tor of all things peculiarly bless you in all those 
endearing connexions consequent on the tender 
and venerable names of husband and father ! I 
have indeed been extremely lucky in getting an 
additional income of £50 a year, while, at the 
same time, the appointment will not cost me 
above £10 or £12 per annum of expenses more 
than I must have inevitably incurred. The 
worst circumstance is, that the excise division 
which I have got is so extensive, no less than 
ten parishes to ride over; and it abounds be- 
sides with so much' business, that I can scarcely 
steal a spare moment. However, labour endears 
rest, and both together are absolutely neces- 
sary for the proper enjoyment of human exis- 
tence. I cannot meet you anywhere. No less 
than an order from th© Board of Excise, at 
Edinburgh, is necessary before I can have so 
much time as to meet you in Ayrshire. But do 
you come, and see rie. We must have a Boeial 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



413 



day, and perhaps lengthen it out with half the 
bight, before you go again to sea. You are the 
earliest friend I now have on earth, my brothers 
excepted ; and is not that an endearing circum- 
Btance ? When you and I first met, we were at 
the green period of human life. The twig would 
easily take a bent, but would as easily return 
to its former state. You and I not only took a 
mutual bent, but by the melancholy, though 
strong influence of being both of the family of 
the unfortunate, we were entwined with one 
another in our growth towards advanced age ; 
and blasted be the sacrilegious hand that shall 
attempt to undo the union ! You and I must 
have one bumper to my favourite toast, " May 
the companions of our youth be the friends of 
our old age!" Come and see me one year; I 
shall see you at Port Glasgow the next, and if 
we can contrive to have a gossiping between 
our two bed-fellows, it will be so much addi- 
tional pleasure. Mrs. Burns joins me in kind 
compliments to you and Mrs. Brown, Adieu ! 
I am ever, my dear Sir, yours, 

R. B. 



CLXXVI. 

TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. 

[The poet enclosed in this letter to his patron in the 
Bxcise the clever verses on Captain Grose, the Kirk's 
Alarm, and the first ballad on Captain Miller's election.] 



Sir, 



2th December, 1789. 



1 HAVE a good while had a wish to trouble 
you with a letter, and had certainly done it long 
ere now — but for a humiliating something that 
throws cold water on the resolution, as if one 
Bhould say, " Yoa have found Mr. Graham a 
rery pow?rful and kind friend indeed, and that 
interest he is so kindly taking in your concerns, 
you ought by everything in your power to keep 
alive ani cherish." Now though since God has 
thought proper to make one powerful and an- 
other helpless, the connexion of obliger and 
obliged is all fair ; and though my being under 
four patronage i»to me highly honourable, yet, 
Sir, allow me to flatter myself, that, as a poet 
\ni an honest man you first interested yourself 
m my welfare, and principally as such, still you 
permit me to approach you. 

I have found the excise business go on a great 
ioal smc ither with me tbin I expected; owinfif 



a good deal to the generous friendship cf M» 
Mitchel, my collector, and the kind assistanc*i 
of Mr. Findlater, my supervisor. I dare to be 
honest, and I fear no labour. Nor do I find ni^ 
hurried life greatly inimical to my correspon 
dence with the muses. Their visits to me, 
indeed, and I believe to most of their acquain 
tance, like the visits of good angels, are shorH 
and far between: but I meet them now and 
then as I jog through the hills of Nithsdale, 
just as I used to do on the banks of Ayr. 1 
take the liberty to enclose you a few bagatelles, 
all of them the productions of my leisure 
thoughts in my excise rides. 

If you know or have ever seen Captain Grose, 
the antiquarian, you will enter into any humour 
that is in the verses on him. Perhaps you 
have seen them before, as I- sent them to a Lon- 
don newspaper. Though I dare say you have 
none of the solemn-league-and-covenant fire, 
which shone so conspicuous in Lord George 
Gordon, and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I 
think you must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, ono 
of the clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical 
book. God help him, poor man! Though he 
is one of the worthiest, as well as one of the 
ablest of the whole priesthood of the Kirk of 
Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous 
term, yet the j)Oor Doctor and his numerous 
family are in imminent danger of being thrown 
out to the mercy of the winter-wkids. The en- 
closed ballad on that business is, I confess, too 
local, but I laughed myself at some conceits 
in it, though I am convinced in my conscience 
that there are a good many heavy stanzas in it 
too. 

The election ballad, as you will see, alludes 
to the present canvass in our string of boroughs. 
I do not believe there will be such a hard-run 
match in the whole general election. 

I am too little a man to have any political at 
tachments ; I am deeply indebted to, and have th« 
warmest veneration for, individuals of both j,ar- / 
ties ; but a man who has it in his power to ba 
the father of his country, and who * * -sf * *, 
is a character that one cannot speak of Titi 
patience. 

Sir J. J. does ** what man can do," but yet \ 
doubt his fate. 



114 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



CLxxvn. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

;^l>urns was often a prey to lowness of spirits: at this 
some dull men have marvelled; but the dull have no 
njfsg^ivings : they go blindly and stupidly on, like a horse 
in .1 mill, and have none of the sorrows or joys which 
genius is heir to.] 

Ellisland, ISth December, 1789. 
Many thanks, dear Madam, for your sheet- 
full of rhymes. Though at present I am below 
the veriest prose, yet from you everything 
pleases. I am groaning under the miseries of 
a diseased nervous system ; a system, the state 
of which is most conducive to our happiness — or 
the most productive of our misery. For now 
near three weeks I have been so ill with a nerv- 
ous head-ache, that I have been obliged for a 
time to give up my excise-books, being scarce 
able to lift my head, much less to ride once a 
week over ten muir parishes. What is man? — 
To-day in the luxuriance of health, exulting in 
the enjoyment of existence ; in a few days, per- 
haps in a few hours, loaded with conscious pain- 
ful being, counting the tardy pace of the linger- 
ing moments by the repercussions of anguish, 
and refusing or denied a comforter. Day fol- 
lows night, and night comes after day, only to 
curse him with life which gives him no plea- 
sure ; and yet the awful, dark termination of 
that life is something at which he recoils. 

" Tell us, ye dead ; will none of you in pity 

Disclose the secret 

What His you are, and we must shortly be ? 
'tis no matter: . 



A little time will make us learn'd as you are."i 
Can it be possible, that when I resign this 
frail, feverish being, I shall still find myself in 
conscious existence ? When the last gasp of 
agony has announced that I am no more to those 
that knew me, and the few who loved me ; when 
the cold, stiffened, unconscious, -ghastly corse is 
resigned into the earth, to be the prey of un- 
»igbtly reptiles, and to become in time a trodden 
?lod, shall I be yet warm in life, seeing and seen, 
enjajing and enjoyed ? Ye venerable sages and 
holy flamens, is there probability in your conjec- 
ttires, truth in your stories, of another world 
beyond death ; or are they all alike, baseless 
visions, and fabricated fables ? If there is an- 
»ther life, it must be only for the just, the bene- 
rolent, the amiable, and the humane ; what a 
lattering idea, then, is a world to come ! Would 

1 \ air't 6raY« 



to God I as firmly believed it, as I ardently wisJ 
it! There I should meet an aged parent. no»» 
at rest from the many buffe tings of an evU 
world, against which he so long and so bravely 
struggled. There should I meet the friend, tht 
disinterested friend of my early life ; the maa 
who rejoiced to see me, because he loved me 
and could serve me. — Muir, thy weaknesses were 
the aberrations of human nature, but thy heart 
glowed with everything generous, manly and 
noble ; and if ever emanation from the All-good 
Being animated a human form, it was thine ! 
There should I, with speechless agony of rap- 
ture, again recognise my lost, my ever deai 
Mary ! whose bosom was fraught with truth, 
honour, constancy, and love. 
'* My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of heavenly rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?" 

Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters ! "• 
trust thou art no impostor, and that thy reve- 
lation of blissful scenes of existence beyond 
death and the grave, is not one of the many 
impositions which time after time have been 
palmed on credulous mankind. I trust that in 
thee "shall all the families of the earth be 
blessed," by being yet connected together in a 
better world, where every tie that bound heart 
to heart, in this state of existence, shall be, fai 
beyond our present conceptions, more endearing. 

I am a good deal inclined to think with those 
who maintain, that what are called nervous af- 
fections are in fact diseases of the mind . I can- 
not reason, I cannot think ; and but to you I 
would not ventiire to write anything aM'^e an 
order to a cobbler. You have felt too mu'^b of 
the ills of life not to sympathise with a diseased 
wretch, who has impaired more than half of any 
faculties he possessed. Your goodness wiU, 
excuse this distracted scrawl, which the wrifeei 
dare scarcely read, and which he would thpow 
into the fire, were he able to write anytMsf 
better, or indeed anything at alL 

Rumour told me something of a son of yoiis, 
who was returned from the East or West Indies. 
If you have gotten news from James or An- 
thony, it was cruel in you not to let me know 
as I promise you on the sincerity of a man, who 
is weary of one world, and anxious about an- 
other, that scarce anything could give me so 
much pleasure as to hear of any good thing be- 
falling my honoured friend 



OF EGBERT BURNS 



m 



If yon hare a minute's leisure, take up your I 
pen in pity to le pauvre miserable. 

R. B. 



OLXXVIII. 



TO LAEY W[INIFRED] M[AXWELL] 
CONSTABLE. 

[The Lady Winifred Maxwell, the Ust of the old line 
*f Nilhsdale, was granddaughter of that Earl who, in 
PIS, made an almost miraculous escape from death, 
through the spirit and fortitude of his countess, a lady of 
Ihs scola family of Powis.] 

Ellisland, IQth December, 1789. 
My Lady, 
In vain have I from day to day expected to 
hear from Mrs. Young, as she promised me at 
Dalswinton that she would do me the honour to 
introduce me at Tinwald ; and it was impossible, 
not from your ladyship's accessibility, but from 
my own feelings, that I could go alone. Lately 
indeed, Mr. Maxwell of Carruchen, in his usual 
goodness, offered to accompany me, when an 
' unlucky indisposition on my part hindered my 
embracing the opportunity. To court the notice 
or the tables of the great, except where I some- 
times have had a little matter to ask of them, 
or more often the pleasanter task of witnessing 
my gratitude to them, is what I never have 
done, andl trust never shall do. But with your 
ladyship I have the honour to be connected by 
one of the strongest and most endearing ties in 
the whole moral world. Common sufferers, in 
a cause where even to be unfortunate is glorious, 
the cause of heroic loyalty ! Though my fathers 
had not illustrious honours and vast properties 
to hazard in the contest, though they left their 
humble cottages only to add so many units 
more to the unnoted crowd that followed their 
leaders, yet what they could they did, and what 
they liad they lost: with unshaken firmness and 
unconcealed political attachments, they shook 
hands with ruin for what they esteemed the cause 
af th«iir king and their country. The language 
and the enclosed verses are for your ladyship's 
eye alone. Poets are not very famous for their 
prudence ; but as f can do nothing for a cause 
which is now nearly no more, I do not wish to 
lurt myself. 

I have the honour to be. 

My lady, 
Bhip's ob iged and obedient 

Humble servant, 
R. B. 



CLXXTX. 
TO PROVOST MAXWELL, 

OF LOCHMABEN. 

[Of Lochmaben, the " Marjory of the mony Lo?hs" ot 
the election ballads, Maxwell was at this time proi ■)st 
a post more of honour than of labour.] 

Ellisland, 20th December, 1789, 
Dear Provost, 

As my friend Mr. Graham goes for your good 
town to-morrow, I cannot resist the temptation 
to send you a few lines, and as I have nothing 
to say I have chosen this sheet of foolscap, and 
begun as you see at the top of the first page, 
because I have ever observed, that when once 
people have fairly set out they know not where 
to stop. Now that my first sentence is conclud- 
ed, I have nothing to do but to pray heaven to 
help me on to another. Shall I write you on 
Politics or Religion, two master subjects for 
your sayers of nothing. Of the first I dare say 
by this time you are nearly surfeited : and for 
the last, whatever they may talk of it, who 
make it a kind of company concern, I nevei 
could endure it beyond a soliloquy. I might 
write you on farming, on building, or niarket- 
ing, but my poor distracted mind is so torn, so 
jaded, so racked and bediveled with the task of 
the superlative damned to make one guinea do 
the business of three, that I detest, abhor, and 
swoon at the very word business., though no less 
than four letters of my very short sirname are 
in it. 

Well, to make the matter short, T shall be- 
take myself to a subject ever fruitful of themes ; 
a subject the turtle-feast of the sons of Satan, 
and the delicious secret sugar-plum of the babes 
of grace — a subject sparkling with all the jewels 
that wit can find in the mines of genius : and 
pregnant with all the stores of learning from 
Moses and Confucius to Franklin and Priestley 
— in short, may it please your Lordship, I iTit>?ad 
to write * * ^ 

[Here the Poet inserted a song which can ,,nly b\ 
sung at times when the punch-bowl has done its dutj 
and wild wit is set free.'} 

If at any time you expect a field-day in youi 
town, a day when Dukes, Earls, and Knighta 
pay their court to weavers, tailors, and cobblers- 
I should like to know of it two or three dnys be 
forehand. It is not that I care three skips of a 
cur dog for the politics, but T should like f^ pe« 



416 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCJii 



Buch an exhibition of human nature. If you 
meet with that worthy old veteran in religion 
and good-fellowship, Mr. Jeffrey, or any of his 
amiable family, I beg you will give them my best 
oompliments. R. B. 



CLXXX. 



TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 

[Of the Monkland Book-Club alluded to in this letter, 
the clergyman had omitted al. mention in his account of 
the Parish of Dunscore, published in Sir John Sinclair's 
work : some of the books -which the poet introduced were 
stigmatized as vain and frivolous.] 

1790. 
Sir, 

The following circumstance has, T believe, 
been committed in the statistical account, trans- 
mitted to you of the parish of Dunscore, in 
Nithsdale. I beg leave to send it to you because 
it is new, and may be useful. How far it is de- 
serving of a place in your patriotic publication, 
you are the best judge. 

To store the minds of the lower classes with 
useful knowledge, is certainly of very great im- 
portance, both to them as individuals and to 
society at large. Giving them a turn for read- 
ing and reflection, is giving them a source of in- 
nocent and laudable amusement; and besides, 
raises them to a more dignified degree in the 
scale of rationality. Impressed with this idea, 
ft gentleman in this parish, Robert Riddel, Esq., 
of Glenriddel, set on foot a species of circulat- 
ing library, on a plan so simple as to be practi- 
cable in any corner of the country; and so 
useful, as to deserve the notice of every country 
gentleman, who thinks the improvement of that 
part of . his own species, whom chance has 
thrown into the humble walks of the peasant 
and the artisan, a matter worthy of his atten- 
tion. 

Mr, Riddel got a number of his own tenants, 
and farming neighbours, to form themselves into 
a society for the purpose of having a library 
amon^ themselves. They entered into a legal 
engagement to abide ty it for three years ; with 
a saving clause or two in case of a removal to a 
distance, or death. Each member, at his entry, 
paid five shillings ; and at each of their meetings, 
which were held every fourth Saturday, six- 
pence more. With their entry-money, and the 
credit which they took on the faith of their 
future funds, they laid in a tolerable stock of 



books at the commencement. What authDri 
they were to purchase, was always decided by 
the majority. At every meeting, all the books, 
under certain fines and forfeitures, by way cf 
penalty, were to be produced ; and the mem 
bers had their choice of the volumes in rotation. 
He whose name stood for that night first on 
the list, had his choice of what volume he 
pleased in the whole collection ; the second had 
his choice after the first; the third after the 
second, and so on to the last. At next meeting, 
he who had been first on the list at the preced- 
ing meeting, was last at this ; he who had been 
second was first ; and so on through the whole 
three years. At the expiration of the engage ' 
ment the books were sold by auction, but only 
among the members themselves ; each man had 
his share of the common stock, in money or in 
books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. 

At the breaking up of this little society, whioh 
was formed under Mr, Riddel's patronage, wh^t 
with benefactions of books from him, and what 
with their own purchases, they had collected to 
gether upwards of one hundred and fifty volumes. 
It will easily be guessed, that a good deal ot trash 
would be bought. Among the books, however 
of this little library, were, Blair's Sermons, Ro 
bertson's History of Scotland, Hume!s History oj 
the Stewarts, The Spectator, Idler, Adventurer, 
Mirror, Lounger, ^Observer, Man of Feeling, Man 
of the World, Chrysal, Don Quixote, Joseph An 
drews, &c. A peasant who can read, and enjoj 
such books, is certainly a much superior being 
to his neighbour, who perhaps stalks beside hia 
team, very little removed, except in shape, from 
the brutes he drives. 

Wishing your patriotic exertions their so mncli 
merited success, 

I am, Sir, 

Your humble servant, 

A Peasant 



CLXXXI 
TO CHARLES SHARPE, ESQ., 

OF HODDAM. 

[The family of Hoddam is of old standing in Nithsdale 
it has mingled blood with some of the noblest ScottiSii 
names ; nor is it unknown either in history or literature 
— the fierce knight of Closeburn, who in the scuffle be- 
tween Bruce and Comyne drew his sword and inad« 



OF ROBERT BLRNS. 



417 



< sicke:." and my friend Charles KirkpatrickSharpe, are 
Bit the least distinguished of its members.] 

[1790.] 
It is true, Sir, you are a gentleman of rank 
and fortune, and I am a poor devil : you are a 
feather in the cap of society, and 1 am a very 
hobnaiHn his shoes; yet I have the honour to* 
belong to the same family with you, and on that 
Bcore I now address you. You will perhaps 
suspect that I am going to claim affinity with 
the ancient and honourable house of Kirkpa- 
trick. No, no, Sir : I cannot indeed be properly 
said to belong to any house, or even any province 
or kingdom; as my mother, who, for many years 
^as spcjse to a marching regiment, gave me into 
Tliis bad world, aboard the packet-boat, some- 
where between Donaghadee and Portpatrick. 
By our common family, I mean, Sir, the family 
of the muses. I am a fiddler and a poet ; and 
you, I am told, play an exquisite violin, and have 
a standard taste in the Belles Lettres. The 
other day, a brother catgut gave me a charming 
Scots air of your composition. If I was pleased 
with the tune, I was in raptures with the title 
you have given it ; and taking up the idea I 
have spun it into the three stanzas enclosed. 
Will you allow me, Sir, to present you them, as 
the dearest offering that a misbegotten son of 
poverty and rhyme has to give ? I have a long- 
ing to take you by the hand and unburthen my 
heart by saying, "Sir, I honour you as a man 
who supports the dignity of human nature, amid 
an age when frivolity and avarice have, between 
them, debased us below the brutes that perish !" 
But, alas, Sir ! to me you are unapproachable. 
It is true, the muses baptized me in Castalian 
streams, but the thoughtless gipsies forgot to 
give m« a name. As the sex have served 
many a good fellow, the Nine have given me a 
great deal of pleasure, but, bewitching jades! 
they have beggared me. Would they but spare 
me a little of their cast-linen ! Were it only in 
my power to say that I have a shirt on my 
back ! but the idle wenches, like Solomon's 
lilies, "they toil not, neither do they spin ;" so 
I must e'en continue to tie my remnant of a 
cravat, like the hangman's rope, round my 
naked throat, and coax my galligaskins to keep 
together their many-coloured fragments. As 
to the affair of shoes, I have given that up. 
My pilgrimages in my ballad-trade, from town 
to town, and on your stony-hearted turnpikes 
too, are what not even the hide of Job's Behe- 
moth could bear. The coat on my back is no 

27 



more : I shall not speak evil of 4he dead. It 
would be equally unhandsome and ungrateful 
to find fault with my old surtout, which so 
kindly supplies and conceals the want of that 
coat. My hat indeed is a great favourite ; and 
though I got it literally for an old song, I would 
not exchange it for the best beaver in Britain 
I was, during several years, a kind of fac-totum 
servant to a country clergyman, where I jickt 
up a good many scraps of learning, particularly 
in some branches of the mathematics. When- 
ever I feel inclined to rest myself on my way, 
I take my seat under a hedge, laying my poetic 
wallet on the one side, and my fiddle-case on 
the other, and placing my hat between my legs, 
I can, by means of its brim, or lather brims, 
go through the whole doctrine of the conic 
sections. 

However, Sir, don't let me mislead you, as 
if I would interest your pity. Fortune has so 
much forsaken me. that she has taught me to 
live without her ; and amid all my rags an 
poverty, I am as independent, and much more 
happy, than a monarch of the world. Accord- 
ing to the hackneyed metaphor, I value the 
several actors in the great drama of life, simply 
as they act their parts. I can look on a worth- 
less fellow of a duke with unqualified contempt, 
and can regard an honest scavenger with sin- 
cere respect. As you. Sir, go through your 
role with such distinguished merit, permit m« 
to make one in the chorus of universal applause, 
and assure you that with the highest respect, 
I have the honour to be, &c., 

Johnny Faa. 



CLXXxn. 

TO MR. GILBERT BURN^ 

[In the few fierce words of this letter the poet f lut 
adieu to all hopes of wealth from EUisland.] 

Ellisland, l\th Janvary, 1790. 
Dear Beothtr, 
I MEAN to take advantage of the frank, though 
I have not, in my present frame of mind, much 
appetite for exertion in writing. My nerves are 
in a cursed state. I feel that horrid hypochon- 
dria pervading every atom of both body and 
soul. This farm has undone my enjoyment of 
myself. It is a ruinous affair on all hanils 



But let it go to hell ! I'll fight it out and be off 
with it. 

We have gotten a set of very decent players 
fiere just now. I have seen them an evening or 
two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me by 
the manager of the company, a Mr. Sutherland, 
who is a man of apparent worth. On New- 
fear-day evening I gave him the following pro- 
i::.gae, which he spouted to his audience with 
•pplause. 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city, 
That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the 

pity: 
Tho', by the bye, abroad why will you roam ? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at home. 

I can no more. — If once I was clear of this 
cursed farm, I should respire more at ease. 

R. B. 



CLXXXIII. 

TO MR. SUTHERLAND, 

PLATER, 
ENCLOSING A PROLOGUE. 

fWhen the farm failed, the poet sought pleasure m the 
playhouse: he tried to retire from his own harassing re- 
flections, into a world created by other minds.] 

Monday Morning. 
I WAS much disappointed, my dear Sir, in 
wanting your raost agreeable company yester- 
day. However, I heartily pray for gaod wea- 
ther next Sunday ; and whatever aerial Being 
has the guidance of the elements, may take any 
other half-dozen of Sundays he pleases, and 
clothe them with 

" Vapours and clouds, and storms, 
Un'il he terrify himself 
A combustion of his own raising." 

I fehall pee you rn Wednesday foi^enoon. In 
Efe« greatest hurry, R. B, 



OLXXXIV. 

TO WILLIAM DUNBAR, W. S. 

[This letter was first published by th'9 Ettrick Shep- 
fierd, in his edition of Burns: it is remarkable for this 
sentence, " I am resolved never to breed up a son of 
aamo to any oi the learned professions : I know the value 
■>f iiL.1e| endence . and since I cannot give my sons an inde- 
pendent fa ";une, I shall give them an independent line of 



life." We may look round us and inquire m hich Jice of 
life the poet could possibly mean.] 

Mlisland, 14:th Januury, 1790. 

Since we are here creatures of a day, sinc« 
" a few summer days, and a few winter nights, 
and the life of man is at an end," why, my dear 
much-esteemed Sir, should you and I let Degli 
gent indolence, for I know it is nothing w^rsH 
step in between us and bar the enjoyment }i a 
mutual correspondence? We are not shax(-JD 
out of the common, heavy, methodical clod, the 
elemental stuff of the plodding selfish race, *he 
sons of Arithmetic and Prudence ; our feelinga 
and hearts are not benumbed and poisoned by 
the cursed influence of riches,^ which, whatever 
blessing they may be in other respectSj are no 
friends to the nobler qualities of the heart : in 
the name of random sensibility, then, let never 
the moon change on our silence any more. I 
have had a tract of bad health most part of this 
winter, else you had heard from me long ere 
now. Thank Heaven, I am now got so much 
better as to be able to partake a little in the en- 
joyments of life. 

Our friend Cunningham will, perhaps, have 
told you of my going into the Excise. The truth 
is, I found it a very convenient business to have 
£60 per annum, nor have I yet felt any of those 
fortifying circumstances in it that I was led to 
fear. 

Feb. 2. 

I have not, for sheer hurry of business, been 
able to spare five minutes to finish my letter- 
Besides my farm business, I ride on my Excis** 
matters at least two hundred miles every week. 
I have rot by any means given up the musea. 
You will see in the 3d ^ol. of Johnson's Scots 
songs that I have contributed my mite there. 

But, my dear Sir, little ones that look up to 
you for paternal protection are an important 
charge. I have already two fine, healthy, stout 
little fellows, and I wish to throw some light 
upon them. I have a thousand reveries and 
schemes about them, and their future desliaj. 
Not that I am a Utopian projector in thesf 
things. I am resolved never to breed up a bob 
of mine to any of the learned professions, I 
know the value of independence ; and since I 
cantct give my sons a.n independent fortune, I 
shall give them an independent line of life 
What a chaos of hurry, chance, and changes is 
this world, when one sits soberly down to reflect 
on it! To a father, who himself kno'w's tli« 
world, the thought that he shall have s'^ns t* 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



41W 



ttsber into it mns>* ''Al him with dread ; but if he 
have daughters, 'he prospect in a thoughtful 
tuoraent is apt to '.hock him. 

I hop" Mrs. Fordyce and the two young ladies 
are -prell Do let me forget that they are nieces 
of yours, and let me say that I never saw a more 
interesting, sweeter pair of sisters in my life. 
I am the fool of my feelings and attachments. 
[ often take up a volume of my Spenser to realize 
you to my imagination, and think over the so- 
cial scenes we have had together. God grant 
Jbit there may be another world more congenial 
to honest fellows beyond this. A world where 
these rubs and plagues of absence, distance, mis- 
fortunes, ill-health, &c., shall no more damp 
hilarity and divide friendship. This I know is 
your throng season, but half a page will much 
oblige, 

My dear Sir, 

Yours sincerely, 

K. B. 



CLXXXV. 

TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

j/alconer, the poet, virhom Burns mentions here, per- 
B.hecl in the Aurora, in which he acted as purser : he was 
a satirist of no mean power, and wrote that useful work, 
the Marine Dictionary : but his fame depends upon " The 
Shipwreck," one of the most original and mournful 
yoems in the language.] 

Ellisland, 25th January, 1790. 

It has been owing to unremitting hurry of 
business that I have not written to you. Madam, 
long ere now. My health is greatly better, 
and I now begin once more to share in satis- 
faction and enjoyment with the rest of my fellow- 
creatures. 

Many thanks, my much-esteemed friend, for 
your kind letters ; but why will you make me 
run the risk of being contemptible and merce- 
nary in my own eyes ? When I pique myself on 
n y independent spirit, I hope it is neither poetic 
license, nor poetic rant; and I am so flattered 
with the honour you have done me, in making 
Dtie jour compeer in friendship and friendly cor- 
respondence, that I cannot without pain, and a 
(le^^ree of mortification, be reminded of the real 
inequality between our situations. 

MDst sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear 
Madam, in the goodf news of Anthony. Not 



} The ballad is in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, 
ti 1803. vo "ii. p.304, « 



only your anxiety about his fate, but my owl 
esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, manly 
young fellow, in the little I had of his a<»- 
quaintance, has interested me deeply in his 
fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the "Ship 
wreck," which you so much admire, is no more- 
After witnessing the dreadful catastrophe he *2 
feelingly describes in his poem, and after wea- 
thering many hard gales of fortune, he went tv 
the bottom with the Aurora frigate ! 

1 forget what part of Scotland had the honour 
of giving him birth ; but he was the son of ob- 
scurity and misfortune. He was one of those 
daring adventurous spirits, which Scotland, be- 
yond any other country, is remarkable for pro- 
ducing. Little does the fond mother think, as 
she hangs delighted over the sweet little leech 
at her bosom, where the poor fellow may here- 
after wander, and what may be his fate. I re • 
member a stanza in an old Scottish ballad, 
which, notwithstanding its rude simplicity 
speaks feelingly to the heart : 

«< Little did my mother thmk. 

That day she cradled me, 
What land I was to travel in, 

Or what death I should die !"l 

Old Scottish song are, you know, a favourite 
study and pursuit of mine, and now I am on 
that subject, allow me to give you two stanzaa 
of another old simple ballad, which I am sure 
will please you. The catastrophe of the pieca 
is a poor ruined female, lamenting her fate. 
She concludes with this pathetic wish : — 

" O that ray father had ne'er on me smii'd j 
O that my mother had ne'er to me sung ! 

O that my cradle had never been rock'd j 
But that I had died when I was young ' 

O that the grave it were my bed ; 

My blankets were my winding sheet ^ 
The clocks and tiie worms my bedfellows a' , 

And O sae sound as I should sleep !" 

I do not remember in all my reading, to have 
met with anything more truly the language of 
misery, than the exclamation in the last lin«. 
Misery is like love ; to speak its language trulj^ 
the author must have felt it. 

I am every day expecting the doctor to giv« 
your little godson^ the small-pox. They ar* 
rife in the country, and 1 tremble for his fat*. 
By the way, I cannot help congratulating yc» 
on his looks and spirit. Every person who seefS 

2 The bard's second son, Francis. 



420 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



him, acknowledges him to he the finest, hand- 
somest child he has erer seen. I am myself de- 
lighted with the manly swell of his little chest, 
and a certain miniature dignity in the carriage 
l>f hig head, and the glance of his fine black eye, 
which promise the undaunted gallantry of an 
independent mind. 

I thought to have sent you some rhymes, hut 
tisae forbids. I promise you poetry until you 
are tired of it, next time I have the honour of 
assuring you how truly I am, &c. 

R. B. 



CLXXXVI. 
TO MR. PETER HILL, 

BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH. 

[The Mademoiselle Burns whom the p^ei inquires 
about, was one of the " ladies of the Canongate," who 
desired to introduce free trade in her profession into a 
close borough : this was refused by the magistrates of 
Edinburgh, though advocated with much eloquence and 
humour in a letter by her namesake — it is coloured too 
strongly with her calling to be published.] 

Ellisland, 2d Feb., 1790. 
No ! I will not say one word about apologies 
or excuses for not writing. — I am a poor, ras- 
cally gauger, condemned to gallop at least 200 
miles every week to inspect dirty ponds and 
yeasty barrels, and where can I find time to 
write to, or importance to interest anybody? 
the upbraidings of my conscience, nay the up- 
braidings of my wife, have persecuted me on 
your account these two or three months past. — 
I wish to God I was a great man, that my cor- 
respondence might throw light upon you, to let 
the world see what you really are : and then I 
would make your fortune without putting my 
hand in my pocket for you, which, like all other 
great men, I suppose I would avoid as much as 
possible. What are you doing, and how are 
you doing ? Have you lately seen any of my few 
frisndl? What is become of the borough re- 
fORM, or how is the fate of my poor namesake, 
Mademoiselle Burns, decided ? man ! but for 
thee and thy selfish appetites, and dishonest 
artifices, that beauteous form, and that once 
innocent and still ingenuous mind, might have 
Bhone conspicuous and lovfciy in the faithful 
wife, and the afi"ectionate mother ; and shall 
the unfortunate sacrifice to thy pleasures have 
«io claim on thy humanity ! 



I saw lately in a Review, some extracts froia 
a new poem, called the Village Curate ; send it 
me. I want likewise a cheap copy of Th% 
World. Mr. Armstrong, the young poet, whc 
does me the honour to mention me so kindly in 
his works, please give him my best thanks for the 
copy of his book — I shall write him, Tiy first 
leisure hour. I like his poetry much, but I 
think his style in prose quite astonishing. 

Your book came safe, and I am going to 
trouble you with further commissions. I call 't 
troubling you, — because I want only, books ; 
the cheapest way, the best ; so you may have 
to hunt for them in the evening auctions. I 
want SiQollette's works, for the sake of his in- 
comparable humour. I have already Roderick 
Random, and Humphrey Clinker. — Peregrine 
Pickle, Launcelot Greaves, and Ferdinand 
Count Fathom, I still want ; but as I said, the 
veriest ordinary copies will serve me. I am 
nice only in the appearance of my poets. I 
forget the price of Cowper's Poems, but, I be- 
lieve, I must have them. I saw the other day, 
proposals for a publication, entitled "Banks's 
new and complete Christian's Family Bible," 
printed for C. Cooke, Paternoster-row, Lon Ion. 
— He promises at least, to give in the work, 1 
think it is three hundred and odd engravings, to 
which he has put the names of the first artista 
in London. — You will know the character of tha 
performance, as some' numbers of it are pub- 
lished ; and if it is really what it pretends to 
be, set me down as a subscriber, and send me 
the published numbers. 

Let me hear from you, your first leisure 
minute, and trust me you shall in future have no 
reason to complain of my silence. The dazzling 
perplexity of novelty will dissipate and leave 
me to pursue my course in the quiet path of 
methodical routine. R. B 



CLXXXVIl. 

TO MR. W. NICOL. 

[The poet has recorded this unlooked-for death of tht 
Dominie's mare in some hasty verses, which are nol 
much superior to the subject.] 

' ElUsland, Feb. 9th, 1790, 
My dear Sir, 
That d-mned mare of yours is dead I woulcf 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



42. 



freely have given her price to have saved her ; 
ihe has vexed me beyond description. Indebted 
as I was to your goodness beyond what I can 
ever repay, I eagerly grasped at your offer to 
have the mare with me. That I might at least 
show my readiness in wishing to be grateful, I 
took every care of her in my power. She was 
never crossed for riding above half a score of 
times by me or in my keeping. I drew her in 
the plough, one of three, for one poor week. I 
refused fifty-five shillings for her, which was 
t.he highest bode I could squeeze for her. T fed 
her up and had her in fine order for Dumfries 
I'air ; when four or five days before the fair, 
she was seized with an unaccountable disorder 
in the sinews, or somewhere in the bones of the 
neck ; with a weakness or total want of power 
in her fillets, and in short the whole vertebrse 
of her spine seemed to be diseased and un- 
hinged, and in eight-and-forty hours, in spite 
of the two best farriers in the country, she died 
and be d-mned to her ! The farriers said that 
she had been quite strained in the fillets be- 
yond cure before you had bought her ; and that 
the poor devil, though she might keep a little 
uesh, had been jaded and quite worn out with 
fatigue and oppression. While she was with me, 
she was under my own eye, and I assure you, 
my much valued friend, everything was done 
for her that could be done; and the accident 
has vexed me to the heart. In fact I could not 
pluck up spirits to write to you, on account of 
the unfortunate business. 

There is little new in this country. Our the- 
atrical company, of which you must have heard, 
leave us this week. — Their merit and character 
are indeed very great, both on the stage and in 
private life ; not a worthless creature among 
them ; and their encouragement has been ac- 
cordingly. Their usual run is from eighteen to 
twenty-five pounds a night: seldom less than 
the one, and the house will hold no more than 
the other. There have been repeated instances 
of sending away six, and eight, and ten pounds 
» night for want of room. A new theatre is to 
be built by subscription ; the first stone is to be 
laid on Friday first to come. Three hundred 
guineas have been raised by thirty subscribers, 
and thirty more might have been got if wanted. 
The manager, Mr. Sutherland, was introduced 
to me by a friend from Ayr ; ai^d a worthier or 
ileverer fellow I have rarely met with. Some 
if our clergj have elipt in by stealth now anl 



then ; but they have got up a farce of their own 
You must have heard how the "Rev. Mr. Lawsoa 
of Kirkmahoe, seconded by the Rev. Mr. Kirk* 
patrick of Dunscore, and the rest of that fac- 
tion, have accused in formal process, the an- 
fortunate and Rev. Mr. Heron of Kirkgunzasn, 
that in ordaining Mr. Nielson to the cure ^t 
souls in Kirkbean, he, the said Heron, felcni 
ously and treasonably bound the said Nielson t^ 
the confession of faith, so far as it was agreeahli 
to reason and ihe word of God ! 

Mrs. B. begs to be remembered most grate- 
fully to you. Little Bobby and Frank are 
charmingly well and healthy. I am jaded to 
death with fatigue. For these two or three 
months, on an average, I have not ridden less 
than two hundred miles per week. I have done 
little in the poetic way. I have given Mr. 
Sutherland two Prologues ; one of which was 
delivered last week. I have likewise strung 
four or five barbarous stanzas, to the tune of 
Chevy Chase, by way of Elegy on your poor un 
fortunate mare, beginning (the name she got 
here was Peg Nicholson) 

"Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
As ever trod on airn ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 
And past the mouth o' Cairn." 

My best compliments to Mrs. Nieol, and little 
Neddy, and all the family ; I hope Ned is a good 
scholar, and will come out to gather nuts and 
apples with me next harvest. R B 



CLXXXVIII. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

[Burns looks back with somethingof regret to the tray* 
of rich dinners and flowing wine-cups whkh lie experi- 
enced in Edinburgh. Alexander Cunnirgham and ii"ii 
unhappy loves are recorded in that tine song, " Had 1 I 
cave on some wild distant shore.'-"] 

. Ellisland, \Wi Fol/ruary, '"90, 
I BEG your pardon, my dear and much valued 
friend, for writing to you on this very unfashion- 
able, unsightly sheet — 

" My poverty but not my will consents." 

But to make amends, since of modish post 1 

have none, except one poor widowed half-sheel 

of gilt, which lies in my drawer among my pie. 

beian fool's-cap pages, like the widow of a mat 



42i 



GENEKAL COEEESPONDENCE 



of fashion, whom that aupolite scoundrel, Ne- 
cessity, has driven from Burgundy and Pine- 
apple, to a dish of Bohea, with the scandal- 
bearing help-mate of a village-priest ; or a glass 
•f whisky-toddy, with a ruby-nosed yoke-fellow 
of a foot-padJing exciseman — I make a vow to 
enclose this sheet-full of epistolary fragments 
b that my only scrap of gilt paper. 

T am indeed your unworthy debtor for three 
friendly letters. I ought to have written to 
you long ere now, but it is a literal fact, I have 
(Scarcely a spare moment. It is not that I will 
not write to you ; Miss Burnet is not more dear 
to her guardian angel, nor his grace the Duke 
of Queensbury to the powers of darkness, than 
my friend' Cunningham to me. It is not that I 
cannot write to you ; should you doubt it, take 
the following fragment, which was intended for 
you soiue tiiiie a^o, aiid b<, convincei thi.,t I 
can antithesize sentiment, and cireumvolute pe- 
riods, as well as any coiner of phrase in the 
regions of philology.' 

December, 1789. 
My dear Cunningham, 

Where are you ? And what are you doing ? 
Can you be that son of levity, who takes up a 
friendship as he takes up a fashion ; or are you, 
like some other of the worthiest fellows in the 
world, the victim of indolence, laden with fet- 
ters of ever-increasing weight ? 

What strange beings we are ! Since we have 
a portion of conscious existence, equally capable 
of enjoying pleasure, happiness, and rapture, 
or of suffering pain, wretchedness, and misery, 
it is surely worthy of an inquiry, whether there 
be not such a thing as a science of life ; whether 
method, economy, and fertility of expedients be 
not applicable to enjoyment, and whether there 
\e not a want of dexterity in pleasure, which 
renders our little scantling of happiness still 
less ; and a profuseness, an intoxication in bliss, 
W'hich leads to satiety, disgust, and self-abhor- 
rence. There is not a doubt but that health, 
talents, character, decent co&petency, respec- 
table friends, are real substantial blessings; 
and yet do we not daily see those who enjoy 
many or all of these good things contrive not- 
withstanding to be as unhappy as others to 
»rhose lot few of them have fallen ? I believe 
one gre%t source of this mistake or misconduct 
is owing to a certain stimulus, with us called 
ambition, which goads us up the hill of life, not 
4s w« ascend other eminences, for the lauuable 



curiosity of viewing an extended landscape 
but rather for the dishonest pride of look 
ing down on others of our fellow-creaturea, 
seemingly diminutive in humbler stations, &o 
&c. 

Sunday, lith February, 1790. 

God help me ! I am now obliged to 
" Join night to day, and Sunday to the week " 
If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of 
these churches, I am d-mned past redemption, 
and what is vrorse, d-mned to all eternity. 1 
am deeply read in Boston's Four-fold State, 
Marshal on Sanctification, Guthrie's Trial of a 
Saving Interest, &c. ; but " there is no balm in 
Gilead, there is no physician there," for me; se 
I shall e'en turn Arminian, and trust to '<8in« 
cere though imperfect obedience." 

"Tuesday, Wih. 

Luukil^? lor me, I was prevented liom Vuc dis- 
cussion of the knotty point at which I had just 
made a full stop. All my fears and care are 
of this world : if there is another, an hones-t 
man has nothing to fear from it. I hate a man 
that wishes to be a Deist : but I fear, every fair, 
unprejudiced inquirer must in some degree be 
a sceptic. It is not that there are any very stag- 
gering arguments against the immortality of 
man; but like electricity, phlogiston, &c., th^ 
subject is so involved in darkness, that we want 
data to go upon. One thing frightens me much : 
that we are to live for ever, seems too good news 
to be true. That we are to enter into a new 
scene of existence, where, exempt from want 
and pain, we shall enjoy ourselves and cm 
friends without satiety or separation — how much 
should I be indebted to any one who could fully 
assure me that this was certain ! 

My time is once more expired. I will write 
to Mr. Cleghorn soon. God bless him and all 
his concerns ! And may all the powers that 
preside over conviviality and friendship, be pre- 
sent with all their kindest influence, when the 
bearer of this, Mr. Syme, and you meet ! I wish 
I could also make one. 

Finally, brethren, farewell ! Whatsoever 
things are lovely, whatsoever things are gentle, 
whatsoever things are charitable, whatscevei 
things are kind, thiiiK; on these things, an<? 
think on R. B. 

1 Youn?. Satire on Women. 



OF ROBEET BURNS. 



42» 



CLXXXIX. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

[That Burns tux*ned at this time his thoughts on the 
frama, this order to his bookseller for dramatic works, 
cs well as his attendance at the Dumfries theatre, afford 
froof 

Ellisland, 2d March, 1790. 

At a late meeting of the Monkland Friendly 
5oci.?ty, it was resolved to augm^ent their library 
by the following books, which you are to send 
UB as soon as possible : — The Mirror, The 
Lounger, Man of Feeling, Man of the World, 
(these, for my own sake, I wish to have by the 
Srst carrier), Knox's History of the Reforma- 
tioUj Rae's History of the Rebellion in 1715; 
any good history of the rebellion in 1745; A 
Display of the Secession Act and Testimony, by 
M Gi":-b; Horvoy's Mr;ditatioE8 ■ BsTeridge's 
Thoughts ; and another copy of Watson's Body 
)f Divinity. 

I wrote to Mr. A. Masterton three or four 
months ago, to pay some money he owed me into 
your hands, and lately I wrote to you to the same 
purpose, but I have heard from neither one or 
other of you. 

In addition to the books I commissioned in 
my last, I want very much An Index to the Ex- 
cise Laws, or an Abridgment of all the Statutes 
now in force relative to the Excise, by Jellinger 
Symons ; I want three copies of this book : if it 
Is now to be had, cheap or dear, get it for me. 
An honest country neighbour of mine wants too 
a Family Bible, the larger the better; but 
second-handed, for he does not choose to give 
above ten shillings for the book. I want like- 
wise for myself, as you can pick them up, second- 
handed or cheap, copies of Otway's Dramatic 
Works Ben Jonson's, Dryden's, Congreve's, 
Wycherley's, Vanbrugh's, Gibber's, or any dra- 
matic works of the more modern, Macklin, Gar- 
rick, Foote, Colman, or Sheridan. A good copy 
too of Moliere, in French, I much want. Any 
'bei s .'od dramatic authors in that language I 
^ant a.ao , but comic authors, chiefly, though I 
!ih mid wish to have Racine, Corneille, and Vol- 
taire too. I am in no hurry for all, or any of 
ihese, but if you accidentally meet with them 
rery cheap, get them for me. 

And now to quit the dry walk of business, how 
do you do, my dear friend ? and how is Mrs. 
Hill? I trust, if now and then not so elegantly 
handsome, at least as amiable, and sings as 
livinely as ever. My good wife too has a 



wood-note wild;" now could w€ 



! charming 

; four . 

1 I am out of all patience with this vile worlds 
for one thing. Mankind are by nature benevo- 
lent creatures, except in a few scoundrelly in- 
stances. I do not think that avarice of the good 



things we chance to have, is born with us ; bul 



cxc. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

fit is not a little singular that Burns says, in this lelle , 

he had just met with the Mirror and Lounger for the first 

j time : it will be remembered that a few years before a 

^ generous article was dedicated by Mackenzie, the editor, 

to the Poems of Burns, and to this the poet often alludei 

in his correspondence.] 

Ellisland, 10th April, 1790. 
I HAVE just now, my ever honoured friend 
enjoyed a very high luxury, in reading a papei 
of the Lounger. You know my national preju- 
dices, I had often read and admired the Spec- 
tator, Adventurer, Rambler, and World ; but 
still with a certain regret, that they were so 
thoroughly and entirely English Alas ! have i 
often said to myself, what are all the boastec 
advantages which my country reaps from the 
union, that can counterbalance the annihilation 
of her independence, and even her very name ! 
I often repeat that couplet of my favourite poet. 
Goldsmith — 



-States of native liberty possest, 



Tho' very poor, may yet be very blest." 
Nothing can reconcile me to the commoii 
terms, "English ambassador, English court," 
&c. And I am out of all patience to see tha 



we are placed here amid so much nakedness, and 
hunger, and poverty, and want, that we are undei 
a cursed necessity of studying selfishness, in 
order that we may exist ! Still there are, in 
every age, a few souls, that all the wants and 
woes of life cannot debase to selfishness, or even 
to the necessary alloy of caution and prudence, i 
If ever I am in danger of vanity, it is when I 
contemplate myself on this side of my disposition 
and character. God knows I am no saint ; I 
have a whole host of follies and sin, to answer 
for, out if I coald, ^nd . beiitve .. io i-. as i&J 
as I can, I would wipe away all tears froim aU 
eyes. 

^ Adieu ! 

R. B 



equivocal character, Hastings, impeached by 
** the Commons of England." Tell me, my 
friend, is this weak prejudice? I believe in my 
conscience such ideas as " my country ; her in- 
dependence ; her honour ; the illustrious names 
that mark the history of my native land ;" &c. 
— I believe these, among your men of the world, 
men who in fact guide for the most part and 
govern our world, are looked on as so many mo- 
difications of wrongheadedness. They know 
the use of bawling out such terms, to rouse or 
lead nxB babble ; but for their own private use, 
with almost all the able statesmen that ever 
existed, ^r now exist, when they talk of right 
and wrong, they only mean proper and im- 
proper ; and their measure of conduct is, not 
what they ought, but what they dare. For 
the truth of this I shall not ransack the history 
of nations, but appeal to one of the ablest 
judges of men that ever lived — the celebrated 
Earl of Chesterfield. In fact, a man who could 
thoroughly control his vices whenever they in- 
terfered with his interests, and who could com- 
pletely put on the appearance of every virtue 
as often as it suited his purposes, is, on the 
Stanhopean plan, the perfect man; a man to 
lead nations. But are great abilities, complete 
without a flaw, and polished without a blemish, 
the standard of human excellence ? This is 
certainly the staunch opinion of men of the world; 
but I call on honour, virtue, and worth, to give 
the Stygian doctrine a loud negative ! How- 
ever, this must be allowed, that, if you abstract 
from man the idea of an existence beyond the 
grave, then the true measure of human conduct 
is, proper and improper : virtue and vice, as dis- 
positions of the heart, are, in that case, of scarce- 
ly the same import and value to the world at 
large, as harmony and discord in the modifica- 
tions of sound ; and a delicate sense of honour, 
like a nice ear for music, though it may some- 
tiicaes give the possessor an ecstasy unknown to 
the coarser organs of the herd, yet, considering 
ihe harsh gratings, and inharmonic jars, in this 
ill-tuned state »f being, it is odds but the indi- 
vidual would be as happy, and certainly would 
be as much respected by the true judges of 
Bociety as it would then stand, without either a 
good ear or a good heart. 

You must know I have just met with the 
Mirror and Lounger for the first time, and I am 
quite in raptures with them ; I should be glad 
b have your opinion of some of the papers. 



The one I have just read. Lounger, No. Gl, ha» 
cost me more honest tears than anything I have 
read of a long time. Mackenzio has been called 
the Addison of the Scots, and m my opinion, 
Addison would not be hurt at the comparison. 
If he has not Addison's exquisite humour, he ai 
certainly outdoes him in the tender anJ the p»= 
thetic. His Man of Feeling (bat I sm nc4 
counsel learned in the laws of criticism) I esti 
mate as the first performance in its kind \ ever 
saw. From what book, moral or even pioi<B 
will the susceptible young mind receive imprea 
sions more congenial to humanity and kiudaess, 
generosity and benevolence; in short, more ol 
all that ennobles the soul to herself, or endears 
her to others — than from the simple affecting 
tale of poor Harley ? 

Still, with all my admiration of Mackenzie's 
writings, I do not know if they are the fittest 
reading for a young man who is about to set 
out, as the phrase is, to make his way into life. 
Do not you think. Madam, that among the few 
favoured of heaven in the structure of their 
minds (for such there certainly are) there may 
be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an elegance 
of soul, which are of no use, nay, in some degree, 
arbsolutely disqualifying for the truly important 
business of making a man's way into life ? If i 
am not much mistaken, my gallant young friend, 
^ ***** *^ ig very much under these dis- 
qualifications ; and for the young females of a 
family I could mention, well may they excite 
parental solicitude, for I, a. common acquaint- 
ance, or as my vanity will have it, an humble 
friend, have often trembled for a turn of mind 
which may render them eminently happy — or 
peculiarly miserable ! 

I have been manufacturing some verses late- 
ly ; but when I have got the most hurried sea- 
son of excise business over, I hope to have more 
leisure to transcribe anything that may show 
how much I have the honour to be. Madam, 
Yours, &c. 

R. B. 



CXCI. 

TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL. 

[Collector Mitchell was a kind and considerate g«iitl« 
man: to his grandson, Mr. John Campbell, Buigeon, ic 
Aberdeen, I owe this characteristic letter.! 



Sir, 



Mlisland, 1700. 



I SHALL not fail to wait on Captain Riddel 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



42^ 



*o-iiight — I wish and pray that the goddess of 
justice herself would appear to-morrow among 
our hon. gentlemen, merely to give them a word 
H their ear that mercy to the thief is injustice 
int the honest man. For my part I have gal- 
l« ped over my ten parishes these four days, 
attil this moment Ihat I am just alighted, or 
r&ther, that my poor jackass-skeleton of a 
k.ors' has let me down ; for the miserable devil 
L&s heeu on his knees half a score of times 
within thf! last twenty miles, telling me in his 
own way, 'Behold, am not I thy faithful jade 
of a horse, on which thou hast ridden these 
many years !' » 

In short, Sir, I have broke my horse's wind, 
and almost broke my own neck, besides some 
injuries in a part that shall be nameless, owing 
10 a hard-hearted stone for a saddle. I find 
that every offender has so many great men to 
espouse his cause, that I shall not be surprised 
If I am committed to the strong hold of the 
law to-morrow for insolence to the dear friends 
of the gentlemen of the country. 

I have the honour to be. Sir, 

Your obliged and obedient humble 
R. B. 



CXCII. 

TO DB. MOORE. 

[The sonnets alluded to by Burns were those of Char- 
lotte Smith : the poet's copy is now before me, with a 
£fiw marks of his pen on the margins.] 

Dumfries, Excise- Office, 14:th July, 1790. 
Sir, 
Coming into town this morning, to attend my 
duty in this office, it being collection-day, I met 
with a gentleman who tells me he is on his way 
t. London ; so I take the opportunity of writing 
tc you, as franking is at present under a tem- 
porary death. I shall have some snatches of 
!?is# •<^ through the day, amid our horrid busi- 
ness and bustle, and I shall improve them as 
well as f can ; but let my letter be as stupid as 
*■***■*****, as miscellaneous as a news- 
paper, as short as a hungry grace-before-meat, 
or as long as a law-paper in the Douglas cauge ; 
as ill-spelt as country .John's billet-doux, or asun- 
lightly a scrawl as Betty Byre-Mucker's answer 
<o it ; I hope, considering circumstances, you 
rill forgive it; and as it will put you to no 
•xpense of postage, 1 shall have the less reflec- 
**<>n about it. 



I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you 
my thanks for your most valuable present, Ze- 
luco. In fact, you are in some degree blameable 
for my neglect. You were pleased to express a 
wish for my opinion of the work, which so flat- 
tered me, that nothing less would serve ny 
overweening fancy, than a formal criticism od 
the book. In fact, I have gravely planned a 
comparative view of you. Fielding, Richardson, 
and Smollett, in your different qualities and 
merits as novel-writers. This, I own, betrays 
my ridJiculous vanity, and I may probably never 
bring the business to bear ; and I am fond of 
the spirit young Elihu shows in the book of 
Job — "And I said, I will also declare mv opi- 
nion," I have quite disfigured my copy ol the 
book with my annotations. I never take it up 
without at the same time taking my pencil, and 
marking with asterisms, parentheses, &c., wheif^ 
ever I meet with an original thought, a nervous 
remark on life and manners, a rematikable well- 
turned period, or a character sketched with un- 
common precision. 

Though I should hardly think of fairly wri- 
ting out my "Comparative View," I shall cer- 
tainly trouble you with my remarks, such aa 
they are. 

I have just received from my gentleman that 
horrid summons in the book of Revelations — 
" That time shall be no more !" 

The little collection of sonnets have some 
charming poetry in them. If indeed I am in- 
debted to the fair author for the book, and not, 
as I rather suspect, to a celebrated author of 
the other sex, I should certainly have written to 
the lady, with my grateful acknowledgments, 
and my own ideas of the comparative excellence 
of her pieces. I would do this last, not from 
any vanity of thinking that my remarks could 
be of much consequence to Mrs. Smith, but 
merely from my own feelings as an author, doing 
as I would be done by. B. B 



CXCJII. 

TO MR. MURDOCH, 

TEACHER OP FRENCH, LONDON. 

[The account of himself, promised to Murdoch ik 
Burns, was never written.] 

ElUsland July 1(5, 1790. 
My DEAR Sir, 

I RECEIVED a letter from you a long time aj?o 



426 



GENEKAL CORRESPONDENCE 



Dut unfortunately, as it was in the time of my 
peregrinations and journeyings through Scot- 
land, I mislaid or lost it, and by consequence 
your direction along with it. Luckily my good 
Btar brought me acquainted with Mr. Kennedy, 
who, I understand, is an acquaintance of yours : 
md by his means and mediation I hope to re- 
place that link which my unfortunate negligence 
had so unluckily broke in the chain of our cor- 
respondence. I was the more vexed at the vile 
accident, as my brother "William, a journeyman 
saddler, has been for some time in London ; and 
wished above all things for your direction, that 
he might have paid his respects to his father's 
f'riend. 

His last address he sent me was, " Wm. Burns, 
at Mr. Barber's, saddler, No. 181, Strand." 1 
writ him by Mr. Kennedy, but neglected to ask 
hii- foi 5 our addi 3£s ; so, V you .nd spsie 
half-minute, please let my brother know by a 
card where and when he will find you, and the 
poor fellow will joyfully wait on you, as one of 
the few surviving friends of the man whose 
name, and Christian name too, he has the honour 
to bear. 

The next letter I write you shall be a long 
one. I have much to tell you of " hair-breadth 
'scapes in th' imminent deadly breach," with 
all the eventful history of a life, the early years 
of which owed so much to your kind tutorage ; 
but this at an hour of leisure. My kindest com- 
pliments to Mrs. Murdoch and family. 
I am ever, my dear Sir, 

Your obliged friend, 

R. B. 



CXCIV. 

TO MR. M'MURDO. 

1 rbis hasty note was accompanied by the splendid elegy 
,m Mutthew Henderson, and no one could better feel than 
tj Murdo, to whom it is addressed, the difference between 
if9 TPVJBic of verse and the clangour of politics.] 



EllklavJ^ 2d August, 1790. 



Sm, 



Now that you are over with the sirens of Flat- 
tery, the harpies of Corruption, and the furies 
3f Ambition, these infernal deities, that on all 
sides, and in all parties, preside over the villa- 
nous business of politics, permit a rustic muse of 
^our acquaintance to do her best to soothe you 
with a song. — 



You knew Henderson — I have not flatteio* 
his memory. 

I have the honour to be, Sir, 

Your obliged humble servant, 
K. B 



cxcv. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[Inquiries have been made in vain after the name of 
Burns's ci-devant friend, who had so deeply wounded ^ia 
feelings.] * 

8^A August, 1790. 
Dear Madam, 

After a long day's toil, plague, and care, I 
sit down to write to you. Ask me "ot why I 
jLxave Jelayad it ^^j lon^ i Ic was ^wiug, to L^rry, 
indolence, and fifty other things ; in short to any- 
thing — but forgetfulness of la plus aimable de son 
seze. By the bye, you are indebted your best 
courtesy to me for this last compliment ; as I 
pay it from my sincere conviction of its truth — 
a quality rather rare in compliments of these 
grinning, bowing, scraping times. 

Well, I hope writing to t/ou will ease a little 
my troubled soul. Sorely has it been bruised 
to-day ! A ci-devant friend of mine, and an 
intimate acquaintance of yours, has given my 
feelings a woimd that I perceive will gangrene 
dangerously ere it cure. He has wounded my 
pride! R. B 



CXCVI. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM 

[" The strain ol mvective," says the judicic. .s Turne 
of this letter, " goes on some time longer in the sly'.e it 
which our bard was too apt to indulge, and cf whici, liiti 
reader has already seen so much."] 

EUisland, ^th August. \7'i){). 
Forgive me, my once dear, and ever dear 
friend, my seeming negligence. You cannot sit 
down and fancy the busy life I lead. 

I laid down my goose-feather to beat my 
brains for an apt simile, and had some thoughts 
of a country grannum at a family christening; 
a bride on the market-day before her marriage*, 
or a tavern-keeper at an election-dinner ; but 
the resemblance that hits my fancy best is, thai 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



42 i 



blackguard miscreant, Satan, who roams about 
like a roaring lion, seeking, searching whom he 
may devour. However, tossed about as I am, if 
choose (and who W)uld not choose) to bind 
down with the crampets ol' attention the brazen 
fonnlation of integrity, I may rear up the super- 
structure of Independence, and from its daring 
turrets bid defiance to the storms of fate. And 
le net tliis a " consummation devoutly to be 
wished?" 

" Thy spirit, Independence, let me share ; 
Lord of the lion-heart, and eagle-eye ! 

Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, 
Nor heed the storm that howls alpng the sky !" 

Are not these noble verses ? They are the 
introduction of Smollett's Ode to Independence: 
if you have not seen the poem, I will send it to 
you. — How wretched is the man that hangs on 
bj- th( -^'ivc'^js c* th( 'jTert ' . T«* sh Hnk frrm 
every dignity of man, at the approach of a lordly 
piece of self-consequence, who, amid all his 
tinsel glitter, and stately hauteur, is but a 
creature formed as thou art — and perhaps not 
so well formed as thou art — came into the world 
a puling infant as thou didst, and must go out 
of it, as all men must, a naked corse. 

R. B. 



CXCVII. 

TO DR. ANDERSON. 

[The gentleman to whom this imperfect note is ad- 
dressed was Dr. James Anderson, a well-known agri- 
cultural and miscellaneous writer, and the editor of a 
weekly miscellany called the Bee.] 

Sir, 

I AM muck indebted to my worthy friend. Dr. 
Blacklock "!- c introducing me to a gentleman of 
Dr. Andercson's celebrity ; but when you do me 
the honour to ask my assistance in your proposed 
l^nblication, alas. Sir ! you might as well think 
to cheapen a little honesty at the sign of an 
Airceate's wig, or humility under the Geneva 
band. I an. a miserable hurried devil, worn to 
the marrow in the friction of holding the noses 
of the poor publicans to the grindstone of the 
rxcise! and, like Milton's Satan, for private 
reasons, am forced 

" To do what yet thi ugh damn'd I would abhor." 
— and, except a covplet or two of honest exe- 
nntion w * * ^ 

R. B. 



cxcvni. 
TO WILLIAM TYTLER, ESQ., 

OF WOODHOUSELEE. 

[William Tytler was the "revered defendei of (bi 
beauteous Stuart" — a man of genius and a gertleiman ] 



Lawn Market, August, 1 790. 



SlE, 



Enclosed I have sent you a sample of the olii 
pieces that are still to be found among our pea- 
santry in the west. I had once a great many of 
these fragments, and some of these here, entire ; 
but as I had no idea then that anybody cared 
for them, I have forgotten them. I invariably 
hold it sacrilege to add anything of my own to 
help out with the shattered wrecks of these 
venerable old compositions ; but they have many 
varijus rviadiUj^u. li yoj. haio no. iee. Ae,_ j 
before, I know they will flatter your true old- 
style Caledonian feelings ; at any rate I am truly 
happy to have an opportunity of assuring you 
how sincerely I am, revered Sir, 

Your gratefully indebted humble servant, 

R. B. 



CXCIX. 
TO CRAUFORD TAIT, ESQ., 

EDINBtJKGH. 

[Margaret Chalmers had now, it appears by this letter, 
become Mrs. Lewis Hay : her friend, Charlotte Hamilton, 
had been for some time Mrs. Adair, of Scarborough : 
Miss Nimmo was the lady who introduced Burns to th« 
far-famed Clarinda,] 

ElUslancL 16th October, 1790. 
Dear Sir, 

Allow me to introduce to your acquaintanct 
the bearer, Mr. Wm. Duncan, a friend of mine, 
whom I have long known and long loved. Hii 
father, whose only son he is, haa a decent litt!« 
property in Ayrshire, and has bred the jcung 
man to the law, in which department he comea 
up an adventurer to your good town. I shaD 
give you my friend's character in two words : 
as to his head, he has talents enough, and mora 
than enough for common life ; as to his heart, 
when nature had kneaded the kindly clay thai 
composes it, she said, " I can no more." 

You, my good Sir, were born under kindei 
stars ; but your fraternal sympathy, I well know 



eau enter into tbe feelings of the young man, 
who goes into life with the laudable ambition to 
do something, and to be something among his 
fellow-creatures ; but whom the consciousness 
of friendless obscurity prefaces to the earth, and 
wounds to the soul ! 

pYen the fairest of his virtues are against 
Mm. That independent spirit, and that ingenu- 
ous modesty, qualities inseparable from a noble 
mind, are, with the million, circumstances not 
a little disqualifying. What pleasure is in the 
power of the fortunate and the happy, by their 
notice and patronage, to brighten the counte- 
nance and glad the heart of such depressed 
yciith ! I am not so angry with mankind for 
then deaf economy of the purse : — the goods of 
this world cannot be divided without being les- 
sened — but why be a niggard of that which 
bestows bliss on a fellow-creature, yet takes no- 
thing from our own means of enjoyment? We 
wrap ourselves up in the cloak of our own 
better fortune, and turn away our eyes, lest the 
wants and woes of our brother-mortals should 
disturb the selfish apathy of our souls ! 

I am the worst hand in the world at asking a 
favour. That indirect address, that insinuating 
implication, which, without any positive request, 
plainly expresses your wish, is a talent not to 
be acquired at a plough-tail. Tell me then, for 
you can, in what periphrasis of language; in 
what circumvolution of phrase, I shall envelope, 
yet not conceal this plain story. — "My dear 
Mr. Tait, my friend Mr. Duncan, whom I have 
the pleasure of introducing to you, is a young 
lad of your own profession, and a gentleman of 
much modesty, and great worth. Perhaps it 
may be in your power to assist him in the, to 
him, important consideration of getting a place ; 
but at all events, your notice and acquaintance 
will be a very great acquisition to him ; and I 
dare pledge myself that he will never disgrace 
yc-ur favour." 

You may possibly be surprised. Sir, at such a 
,«tter from me ; 'tis, I own, in the usual way of 
e^alculating these matters, more than our ac- 
quaintance entitles me to ; but my answer is 
ehort : — Of all the men at your time of life, 
whom I knew in Edinburgh, you are the most 
accessible on the side on which I have assailed 
70U. You are very much altered indeed from 
^hat you were when I knew you, if generosity 
point the path you will not tread, or humanity 
lali to you in vain. 



As to myself, a being to whose interest I be* 
lieve you are still a well-wisher; I am here, 
breathing at all times, thinking sometimes, and 
rhyming now and then. Every situation haa 
its share of the cares and pains of life, and my 
situation I am persuaded has a full ordinary 
allowance of its pleasures and enjoyments 

My best compliments to your father and Miss 
Tait. If you have an opportunity, please re- 
member me in the solemn league and covenant 
of friendship to Mrs. Lewis Hay. I am a wretch 
for not writing her ; but I am so haokneyed 
with self-accusation in that way, that my con- 
science lies in my bosom with scarce the sen- 
sibility of an oyster in its shell. Where is Lady 
M'Kenzie ? wherever she is, God bless her ! I 
likewise beg leave to trouble you with com- 
pliments to Mr. Wm. Hamilton ; Mrs. Hamilton 
and family ; and Mrs. Chalmers, when you are 
in that country. Should you meet with Misa 
Nimmo, please remember me kindly to her. 

R. B 



CO. 



TO 



[This letter contained the Kirk's Alarm, a satire written 
to help the cause of Dr. M'Gill, who recanted his heresy 
rather than be removed from his kirk.] 

Ellisland, 1790. 
Dear Sib, 
Whether in the way of my trade I can be 
of any service to the Rev. Doctor, is I fear very 
doubtful. Aj ax's shield consisted, I think, of 
seven bull-hides and a plate of brass, which 
altogether set Hector's utmost force at defiance. 
Alas ! I am not a Hector, and the worthy Doc- 
tor's foes ar« as securely armed as Ajax was. 
Ignorance, superstition, bigotry, stupidity, ma- 
levolence, self-conceit, envy— all strongly bcu!i<J 
in a massy frame of brazen impudence. Good 
God, Sir ! to such "a shield, humoiir is the peck 
of a sparrow, and satire the pop-gun of a school- 
boy. Creation-disgracing scelerats such as they, 
God only can mend, and the devil only can 
punish. In the comprehending way of Caligula, 
I wish they all had but one neck. I feel impO' 
tent as a child to the ardour of my wishes ! 
for a withering curse to blast the germins ol 
their wicked machinations ! for a poisonoua 
tornado, winged from the torrid zoae of Tar 



OF ROBEET BURNS. 



42£ 



laraa, to sweep the spreadinjr irop of their 
nllaaous contrivances to tt.e lov^est hell! 

Jl. B. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

' The poet wrote out several copies of Tain o' Shanter 
«B'l seor ttieni to his friends, requesting their criticisms : 
he wrote few poems so universally applauded. 

Ellisland, November, 1790. 

*• As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good 
aews from a far country." 

Fate has long owed me a letter of good news 
from you, in return for the many tidings of sor- 
row which I have received. In this instance I 
most cordially obey the app^'.tle — "Rejoice with 
them that do rejoice" — for me, to sing fov joy, is 
no new thing; but to preach for joy, as I have 
done in the commencement of this epistle, is a 
pitch of extravagant rapture to which I never 
rose before. 

I read your letter — T literally jumped for joy 
— How could such a mercurial creature as a 
poet lumpishly keep bis seat on the receipt of 
th« best news from hi^ best friend. I seized 
my gilt-headed Wange'». rod, an instrument in- 
dispensably necessary ir my left hand, in the 
momept of inspiration and rapture ; and stride, 
stride — quick and qii.icker — out skipt I among 
the broomy banks of Nith to muse over my joy 
bv retail. To keep within the bounds of prose 
was impossible. Mrs. Little's is a more elegant, 
"^ut not a more sincere compliment to the sweet 
ittle fellow, than I, extempore almost, poured 
wt to him in the following verses : — 

Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love 

And ward o' mony a prayer, 
"What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, an' fair. 
November hirples o'er the lea 

Chill on thy lovely form ; 
But gane, alas! the ebelt'ring tree 

Should shield thc-e frae the storm. 

I am. much flott»re'l by your approbation of 
my Tarn, o' ShanUr which you express in your 
former letter ; *hor<gb, by the bye, you load me 
in that said letter with accusations heavy and 
many ; to all which I plead, not guilty ! Your 
book is. I hear, on the road to reach me. As 



to printing of poetry, when you prepare it for 
the press, you have only to spell it right, and 
place the capital letters properly : as to th« 
punctuation, the printers do that themselves. 

I have a copy of Tarn o' Shanter ready to send 
you by the first opportunity : it is too heavy t« 
send by post. 

I heard of Mr. Corbet lately. He, in cozus«> 
quence of your recommendution, is most zealotui 
to serve me. Please favour me soon with an 
account of your good folks ; if Mrs. H. is re- 
covering, and the young gentleman doing well. 

R. B. 



ecu. 

TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE. 

[The present alluded to was a gold snuff-box, witb » 
portrait of Queen Mary on the lid.] 

Ellisland, l\th January, 1791 
Mt Lady, 
Nothing less than the unlucky accident of 
having lately broken my right arm, could have 
prevented me, the moment I received your lady- 
ship's elegant present by Mrs. Miller, from re- 
turning you my warmest and most grateful 
acknowledgments. I assure your ladyship, I 
shall set it apart — the symbols of religion shall 
only be more sacred. In the moment of poetio 
composition, the box shall be my inspiring 
genius. When I would breathe the compre- 
hensive wish of benevolence for the happiness 
of others, I shall recollect your ladyship ; when 
I would interest my fancy in the distresses in" 
cident to humanity, 1 shall remember the unfoar> 
tunate Mary. R. B. 



CCIII. 

TO WILLIAM DUNBAR, N. 3. 

[This letter was in answer to one fm n Dunbcr is 
which the witty colonel of the Croohallan Feacib.M 
Bupposed the poet had been translated to Elysiuo* to sing 
to the immortals, as his voice had not been heard of law 
on earth.] 

Ellisland, 17 ih January, 1791. 
I AM not gone to Elysium, most noble colonel, 
but am still here in this sublunary world, serv- 
ing my God, by propagating his image, and 



t30 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



hoaouring my king by begetting him loyal sub- 
jects. 

Many happy returns of the season await my 
friend. May the thorns of care never beset his 
path ! May peace be an inmate of his bosom, 
and rapture a frequent visitor of his soul ! May 
Ihe blood-hounds of misfortune never track his 
steps, nor the screech-owl of sorrow alarm his 
iwellitg! May enjoyment tell thy hours, and 
pleasure number thy days, thou friend of the 
bard! "Blessed be he that blesseth thee, and 
Dursed be he that curseth thee ! ! !" 

vis a further proof that I am still ir^ the land 
of existence, I send you a poem, the latest I 
have composed. I have a particular reason for 
wishing you only to show it to select friends, 
Bhould you think it worthy a friend's persual ; 
but if, at your first leisure hour, you will favour 
me with your opinion of, and strictures on the 
performance, it will be an additional obligation 
on, dear Sir, your deeply indebted humble ser- 
vant, R. B. 



CCIV. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

[The poet's eloquent apostrophe to poverty has no little 
feeling in it : he beheld the money which his poems 
brought melt silently away, and he looked to the future 
with more fear than hope.] 

Ellisland, 17th January, 1791. 

Take these'two guineas, and place them over 

against that d-mned account of yours ! which 

has gagged my mouth these five or six months ! 

I can as little write good things as apologies to 

he man I owe money to. the supreme curse 
of making three guineas do the business of five! 
Not all the labours of Hercules ; not all the 
Hebrews' three centuries of Egyptian bondage, 
were such an insuperable business, such an 

nfrrnal task ! ! Poverty ! thou half-sister of 
iiath, thou cousin-german of hell': where shall 
I f.ni force of execration equal to the amplitude 
cf thy demerits ? Oppressed by thee, the vene- 
rable ancient, grown hoary in the practice of 
every virtue, laden with years and wretched- 
ness, implores a little — little aid to support his 
existence, from a stony-hearted son of Mammon, 
vvhose sun of prosperity never knew a cloud ; 
and is by him denied and insulted. Oppressed 
by thee, the man of sentiment, whose heart 
glows with indepei dence, and melts with sensi- 



bility, inly pines under the neglect, or writhei 
in bitterness of soul, under the contumely of 
arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, 
the son of genius, whose ill-starred ambition 
plants him at the tables of the fashionable and 
polite^ must see in suflFering silence, his remark 
neglected, and his person despised, while shal- 
low greatness in his idiot attempts at wit, shall 
meet with countenance and applause. Nor is it 
only the family of worth that have reason to 
complain of thee: the children of folly and vice, 
though in common with thee the offspring of 
evil, smart equally under thy rod. Owing to 
thee, the man of unfortunate disposition and 
neglected education, is condemned as a fool for 
his dissipation, despised and shunned as a 
needy wretch, when his follies as usual bring 
him to want; and when his unprincipled ne- 
cessities drive him to dishonest practices, he is 
abhorred as a miscreant, and perishes by the 
justice of his country. But far otherwise is 
the lot of the man of family and fortune. His 
early follies and extravagance, are spirit and 
fire ; his consequent wants are the embarrass- 
ments of an honest fellow ; and when, to remedy 
the matter, he has gained a legal commission to 
plunder distant provinces, or massacre peaceful 
nations, he returns, perhaps, laden with the 
spoils of rapine and murder ; lives wicked and 
respected, and dies a scoundrel and a lord. — 
Nay, worst of all, alas for helpless woman I the 
needy prostitute, who has shivered at the cor- 
ner of the street, waiting to earn the wages of 
casual prostitution, is left neglected and in- 
sulted, ridden down by the chariot wheels of 
the coroneted Rip, hurrying on to the guilty 
assignation ; she who without the same neces- 
sities to plead, riots nightly in the same guilty 
trade. 

Well ! divines may say of it what they please ; 
but execration is to the mind what phlebotomy 
is to the body : the vital sluices of both are 
wonderfully relieved by their respective evacua 
tions. R. B. 



ccv. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

[To Alexander Cunningham the poet generally comma 
nicated'his favourite compopitions.] 

Ellisland, 2Zd January, 1791. 
Many happy returns of the season to you, 
my dear friend ! As many of tl.e good things 



OF ROBEET BURNS. 



431 



ftf this life, as is consistent with the usual mix- 
ture of good and evil in the cup of being ! 

I have just finished a poem (Tarn o' Shanter) 
which you will receive enclosed. It is my first 
essay in the way of talei. 

I have these several mouths been hammering 
at an elegy on the amiable and accomplished 
Miss Burnet. I have got, and can get, no far- 
ther than the following fragment, on whicli 
please give me your strictures. In all kinds of 
poetic composition, I set great store by your 
opinion ; but in sentimental verses, in the poetry 
of the heart, no Roman Catholic ever set more 
value on the infallibility of the Holy Father 
than I do on yours. 

I mean the introductory couplets as text 
verses. 

ELEGY 

ON THE LATE BUSS BURNET, OF MONBODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 
As Burnet lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, 
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet lo-w- 



Let me hear from you soon. Adieu ! 



R. B. 



CCVI. 

TO A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 

[< ■ I have seldom in my life," says Lord Woodhouselee, 
" tasted a higher enjoyment from any work of genius 
t an I received from Tarn o' Shanter."] 



Sir, 



Ellisland, February, 1791. 



NoPHiNQ less than the unfortunate accident 
I have met with, could have prevented my 
f,rateful acknowledgments for your letter. His 
own lavourite poim, and that an essay in the 
walk of the muses entirely new to hira, where 
^-necquently his hopes and fears were on the 
aost anxious alarm for his success in the 
Attempt , to have that poem so much applauded 
^y one of :iie first judges, was the most delicious 
fibration that ever thrilled along the heart- 
Btrings of a poor poet. However, Providence, 
10 Keep up the proper proportion of evil with 
the good, which it seems is necessary in this 
lublunary state, thought proper to check my 
„xultation by a very serious misfortune. A day 
»r twa after I recei'-ed your letter, my horse 



came down with me and broke my right arm. 
As this is the first service my arm has done me 
since its disaster, I find myself unal le to do 
more than just in general terms thank you for 
this additional instance of your patronage and 
friendship. As to the faults you detected in the 
piece, they are truly there: one of them, th© 
hit at the lawyer and priest, I shall cut out; as 
to the falling off in the catastrophe, for the rea- 
son you justly adduce, it cannot easily be reme- 
died. Your approbation, Sir, has given me 
such additional spirits to persevere in this 
species of poetic composition, that I am already 
revolving two or three stories in my fancy. If 
I can bring these floating ideas to bear any 
kind of embodied form, it will give me addi- 
tional opportunity of assuring you how much I 
have the honour to be, &c. R. P 



CCVII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[The elegy on the beautiful Miss Burnet, of Monboddo. 
was laboured zealously by Burns, but it never reached 
the excellence of some of his other compositions.] 

Ellisland, 7th Feb. 1791. 

When I tell you. Madam, that by a fall, not 
from my horse, but with my horse, I have been 
a cripple some time, and that this is the first 
day my arm and hand have been able to serve 
me in writing; you will allow that it is too good 
an apology for my seemingly ungrateful silence. 
I am now getting better, and am able to rhyme 
a little, which implies some tolerable ease ; aa 
T cannot think that the most poetic genius is 
able to compose on the rack. 

I do not remember if ever I mentioned to yon 
my having an idea of composing an elegy on the 
late Miss Burnet, of Monloddo. I had th« 
honour of being pretty well acqu&inted with 
her, and have seldom felt so much it the loss 
of an acquaintance, as when I hef.pd that so 
amiable and accomplished a piece of God's worh 
was no more. I have, as yet, gone no far the? 
than the following fragment, of which plfaso 
let me have your opinion. You know that elegy 
is a subject so much exhausted, that any new 
idea on the business is not to be expected : 'tis 
well if we can place an old idea in a new light 
How far I have succeeded as to this last, you 



IS2 



aENEEAL CORRESPONDENCE 



will judge from what foMows. I have proceeded 
no further. 

Your kind letter, with your kind remembrance 
of your godson, came safe. This last. Madam, 
is scarcely what my pride can bear. As to 
the little fellow, he is, partiality apart, the 
finest boy I have for a long time seen. He is 
now seventeen months old, has the small-pox 
and measles over, has cut several teeth, and 
never had a grain of doctor's drugs in his 
bowels. 

I am truly happy to hear that the "little 
floweret" is blooming so fresh and fair, and 
that the " mother plant" is rather recovering 
her drooping head. Soon and well may her 
" cruel wounds" be healed. I have written thus 
far with a good deal of difficulty. When I get 
a little abler you shall hear farther from, 
Madam, yours, 

K B. 



covin. 

TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. 

[Alison wasmucn gratihed. it is said, with this recogni- 
tion of the principles laid down in his ingenious and popu- 
lar work.] 

EUisland, near Dumfries, \4ith Feb. 1791. 
Sir, 
You must by this time have set me down as 
one of the most ungrateful of men. You did 
me the honour to present me with a book, 
which does honour to science and the intel- 
lectual powers of man, and I have not even so 
much as acknowledged the receipt of it. The 
fact is, you yourself are to blame for it. Flat- 
tered as I was by your telling me that you 
wished to have my opinion of the work, the 
old spiritual enemy of mankind, who knows 
well that vanity is one of the sins that most 
easily beset me, put it into my head to ponder 
over the performance with the look-out of a 
critic, and to draw up forsooth a deep learned 
digest of strictures on a composition, of which, 
in fact, until I read the book, I did not even 
know the first principles. I own. Sir, that at 
first glance, several of your propositions star- 
tled me as paradoxical. That the martial clan- 
gour nf a trumpet bad something in it vastly 
more grand, heroic, and sublime, than the twin- 
gle twangle of a jew's-harp: that the delicate 
tenure of a rose-twig, when the half-blown 



flower is heavy with the tears of tlie dairn, wai 
infinitely more beautiful and elegant than the 
upright stub of a burdock ; and that from some- 
thing innate and independent of all associations 
of ideas ; — these I had set down as irrefragable, 
orthodox truths, until perusing your book shook 
my faith. — In short. Sir, except Euclid's Ele- 
ments of Geometry, which I made a shift to un- 
ravel by my father's fire-side, in the wintei 
evening of the first season I held the plough, I 
never read a book which gave me such a quan- 
tum of information, and added so much to my 
stock of ideas, as your "Essays on the Prin- 
ciples of Taste." One thing. Sir, you must for- 
give my mentioning as an uncommon merit in 
the work, I mean the language. To clothe ab- 
stract philosophy in elegance of style, sounds 
something like a contradiction in terms ; but 
you have convinced me that they are quite com- 
patible. 

I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of my 
late composition. The one in print ^ is my first 
essay in the way of telling «^ tale. 

X <vm, Sir, &c. 

R. B. 



CCIX. 

TO DR. M C R E. 

[Moore admired but moderately the beautiful ballad on 
Queen Mary, and the Elegy on Captain Matthew Hen- 
derson : Tam o' iShanter he thought full of poetical beau 
ties. — He again regrets that he writes in the language ot 
Scotland.] 

EUisland, 20th February/, 1791. 

1 3)0 not know. Sir, whether you are a sub- 
scriber to Orose^ s Antiquities of Scotland. If you 
are, the enclosed poem will not be altogether 
new to you. Captain Grose did me the favour 
to send me a dozen copies of the proof sheet, 
of which this is one. Should you have read 
the piece before, still this will answer the prin- 
cipal end I have in view : it will give me another 
opportunity of thanking you for all your good 
ness to the rustic bard ; and also of showing 
you, that the abilities you have been pleased to 
commend and patronize are still employed in the 
way you wish. 

The 'Elegy on Captain Henderson, is a tribute 
to the memory of a man I loved much. Poets 

1 Tam o' Shunter. 



uF ROBERT BURNS. 



433 



have in this the same advantage as Roman Ca- 
tholics; they can be of service to their friends 
after they have passed that bourne where all 
other kindness ceases to be of avail. Whether, 
after all, either the one or the other be of any 
real service to the dead, is, I fear, very proble- 
matical ; biTt I am sure they are highly grati- 
fying to the living : and as a very orthodox 
text, I forget where in scripture, says, '* what- 
soever is not of faith is sin ;" so say I, what- 
soever is not detrimental to society, and is of 
positive enjoyment, is of God, the giver of all 
good things., and ought to be received and en- 
joyed b}' his creatures with thankful delight. 
As almost all my religious tenets originate from 
my heart, I am wonderfully pleased with the 
idea, that I can still keep up a tender intercourse 
with the dearly beloved friend, or still more 
dearly beloved mistress, who is gone to the world 
of spirits. 

The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I 
vrsiS busy with Percy's Reliques of English Poetry. 
By the way, bow much is every honest heart, 
which has a t ncture of Caledonian prejudice, 
obliged to you for your glorious story of Bu- 
chanan and Targe! 'Twas an unequivocal proof 
of your loyal gallantry of soul, giving Targe the 
victory. I should have been mortified to the 
ground if you had not. 

[ have just read over, once more of many 
times, your Zeluco. 1 marked with my pencil, 
as I went along, every passage that pleased me 
particularly above the rest ; and one or two, I 
think, which with humble deference, I am dis- 
posed to think unequal to the merits of the book. 
I nave sometimes thought to transcribe these 
mc*iked passages, or at least so much of them 
4iii to point where they are, and send them to 
you. Original strokes that strongly depict the 
human heart, is your and Fielding's province 
beyond any other novelist I have ever perused. 
Richardson indeed might perhaps be excepted; 
but unhappily, dramatis personce are beings of 
another world ; and however they may captivate 
the unexperienced, romantic fancy of a boy or 
a girl, they will ever, in. proportion as we have 
madi human nature our study, dissatisfy our 
riper yeara. 

As to n\j private concerns, I am going on, a 
Iriighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and have 
lately had the interest to get myself ranked 
on the list of excise as a supervisor. I am not 
y«t employed as such but in a few years I shall 



fall into the file of supervisorship by seniority. 
I have had an immense loss in the death of the 
Earl of Glencairn; the patron from whom all 
my fame and fortune took its rise. Independent 
of my grateful attachment to him, which waa 
indeed so strong that it pervaded my very soul, 
and was entwined with the thread of my exist- 
ence : so soon as the prince's friends had got in 
(and every dog you know has his day), my get- 
ting forward in the excise would have been an 
easier business than otherwise it will be. 
Though this was a consummation devoutly to 
be wished, yet, thank Heaven, I can live anc 
rhyme as I am ; and as to my boys, poor little 
fellows ! if I cannot place them on as high an 
elevation in life, as I could wish, I shall, if I am 
favoured so much of the Disposer of events as to 
see that period, fix them on as broad and inde 
pendent a basis as possible. Among the many 
wise adages which have been treasured up by 
our Scottish ancestors, this is one of the best, 
Better he the head o' the commonalty, than the tail 
o' the gentry. 

But I am got on a subject, which however in 
teresting to me, is of no manner of consequence 
to you ; so I shall give you a short poem on the 
other page, and close this with assuring you 
how sincerely I have the honour to be. 
Yours, &c. 

R. B. 

Written on the blank leaf of a book, which I 
presented to a very young lady, whom I had 
formerly characterized under the denomination 
of The Rose Bud. * * * 



COX. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

[Cunningham could tell a merry story, and si:^ a i a 
morous song ; nor was he without a feeling for th» A»■^ 
sensibilities of his friend's verse.] 

Ellisland, 12th March, 11 dl. 
If the foregoing piece be worth your stric; 
tures, let me have them. For my own part, & 
thing that I have just composed always appears 
through a double portion of that partial medium 
in which an author will ever view his own works. 
I believe in general, novelty has something in it 
that inebriates the fancy, and not unfrequently 
dissipates and fumey away like other intoxica- 
tion, and leaves the poor patient, as usual, with 



181 



GENERAL COllKESPONUENCE 



»n aching heart. A striking instance of this 
might be adduced, in the revolution of many a 
hymeneal honeymoon. But lest I sink into 
iRtupid prose, and so sacrileg'.ously intrude on 
the office of my parish-priest, I shall fill up the 
page in my own way, and give you another song 
of my late composition, which will appear per- 
haps in Johnson's work, as well as the former. 
You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, 
fhere'll never be peace Hill Jamie comes hame. 
»^ hen political combustion ceases to be the ob- 
ject cf princes and patriots, it then you know 
becomes the lawful prey of historians and poets. 

By 3'on castle wa' at the close of the day, 

^ heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey ; 

Avil as he was singing, the tears fast down 

came — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your 
fancy, you cannot imagine, my dear friend, how 
much you would oblige me, if by the charms of 
your delightful voice, you would give my honest 
effusion to " the memory of joys that are past," 
to the few friends whom you indulge in that 
pleasure. But I have scribbled on 'till I hear 
thf clock has intimated the near approach of 

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane. — 

So good night to you ! Sound be your sleep, and 
delectable your dreams ! Apropos, how do you 
like this thought in a ballad, I have just now 
on the tapis ? 

I look to the west when I gae to rest, 

That happy my dreams and my slumbers may 
be; 

Far, far in the west 1.3 he I lo'e best, 
The lad that is dear to my babie and me ! 

SooJ night, once more, and God bless you! 

R. B. 



TO 



CCXI. 
MR. ALEXANDER DALZEL, 

FACTOR, FINDLATSTON. 



and begged that the poet would let him know v»k»t h;» 
views ir the w^rld v/ere, that he might furilier them ) 

Ellisland, 19fA March, 1791. 
My dear Sir, 

I HAVE taken the liberty to franli this letter 
to you, as it encloses an idle poem ( f minej 
which I send you; and God knows y:u may 
perhaps pay dear enough for it if you read n 
through. Not that this is my own opinion ; hai 
the author, by the time he has compose 1 anj 
corrected his work, has quite pored away all 
his powers of critical discrimination. 

I can easily guess from my own heart, what 
you have felt on a late most rnelancholy event. 
God knows what 1 have suffered, at the losfs of 
my best friend, my first and dearest patron and 
benefactor ; the man to whom I owe all that I 
am and have ! I am gone into mourning for 
him, and with more sincerity of grief than I 
fear some will, who by nature's ties ought to 
feel on the occasion, 

I will be exceedingly obliged to you, indeed, 
to let me know the news of the noble family, 
how the poor mother and the two sisters sup- 
port their loss. I had a packet of poetic baga- 
telles ready to send to Lady Betty, when I saw 
the fatal tidings in the newspaper. I see by the 
same channel that the honoured remains of my 
noble patron, are designed to be brought to the 
family burial-place. Dare I trouble you to let 
me know privately before the day of interment, 
that I may cross the country, and steal among 
the crowd, to pay a tear to the last sight of my 
ever revered benefactor ? It will oblige me 
beyond expression. R. B. 



iCromek says that Alexander Dalzel introduced the 
wsiry of Burns to thenoticeof tlieEarlof Glencairn, who 
i«-ri»1 the Kilmarnock edition with him to Edinburgh, 



CCXII. 
TO MRS. GRAHAM, 

OF FINTRAT. 

[Mrs. Graham, of Fintray, felt both as a lady and s, 
Scottish one, the tender Lament of the fair and unfoftw- 
nate princess, which this letter contained.] 

Ellisland, 1791. 
Madam, 
Whether it is that the story of our Mary 
Queen of Scots has a' peculiar effect on the 
feelings of a poet, or whether I have, in the en- 
closed ballad, succeeded beyond mj usual poetio 
success, I know not ; but it has pleased me be- 
yond any effort of my muse for a good wbil* 



OF HOBEKT BURNS. 



iSt 



past ; on that account I enclose it particularly 
to you. It is true, the purity of my motives 
may be suspected. I am already deeply in- 
debted to Mr. Graham's goodness ; and what, in 
the usual ways of men, is of infinitely greater im- 
portance, Mr. G. can do me service of the ut- 
most impo.»-tance in time to come. I v^^as born a 
f )or dog ; and however 1 may occasionally pick 
a better bone than I used to do, I know I must 
live and die poor: but I will indulge the flatter- 
ing faith that my j ^etry will considerably out- 
live my poverty ; and without any fustian afl'ec- 
*ation of spirit, I can promise and affirm, that it 
must be no ordinary craving of the latter siall 
ever make me do anything injurious to the honest 
fame of the former. Whatever mny be my 
failings, for failings are a part of human nature, 
may they ever be those of a generous heart, aftd 
an independent mind ! It is no fault of mine 
that I was born to dependence ; nor is it Mr. 
Graham's chiefest praise that he can command 
influence ; but it is his merit to bestow, not only 
with the kindness of a brother, but with the 
politeness of a gentleman ; and I trust it shall 
be mine, to receive with thankfulness, and re- 
member with undiminished gratitude. 

R. B. 



CCXIII. 
TO MRS. GRAHAM, 

or PINTRAT. 

j^I'he following letter was written on the blank leaf of 
t new edition of his poems, presented by the poet, to one 
»vhom he regaiv^ed, and justly, as a patroness.] 

It is probable, Madam, that this page may 
be read, when the hand that now writes it shall 
le mouldering in the dust: may it then bear 
ritness, that I present you these volumes as 
ft tribute of gratitude, on my part ardent and 
sincere, as your and Mr. Graham's goodnesis 
\o mv has been generous and noble ! May every 
.hild of yours, in the hour of need, find such a 
friend as I shall teach every child o*" mine, that 
Jheir father found in you, 

R. B. 



C€XIV. 

TO THE REV. G. BAIRD. 

,It was proposed to publish a new edition of the poems 
' M eha*! Bruce, by subscription, and give the rrofits 



to his mother, a woman eighty years old, and poor aBii 
helpless, and Burns was asked for a poem to gi\'e a ne\i 
impulse to the publication.] 

ElUsland, 179] 
Reverend Sir, 

Why did you, my dear Sir, write to me i% 
such a hesitating style on the business of pool 
Bruce ? Don't I know, and have I not felt, thf 
many ills, the peculiar ills that poetic flesh ij 
heir to ? You shall have your choice of all thfl 
unpublished poems I have; and had your letter 
had my direction, so as to have reached me 
sooner (it only came to my hand this moment), 
I should have directly put you out of suspense 
on the subject, I only ask, that some prefatory 
advertisement in the book, as well as the sub- 
scription bills, may bear, that the publication 
is solely for the benefit of Bruce's mother. I 
would not put it in the power of ignorance to 
surmise, or malice to insinuate, that 1 clubbed 
a share in the work from mercenary motives. 
Nor need you give me credit for any remark- 
able generosity in my part of the business. I 
have such a host of peccadilloes, failings, follies, 
and backslidings (anybody but myself might 
perhaps give some of them a worse appellation), 
that by way of some balance, however trifling, 
in the account, I am fain to do any good thai 
occurs in my very limited power to a fellow- 
creature, just for the selfish purpose of clearing 
a little the vista of retrospection, 

R. B. 



CCXV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[Francis Wallace Burns, the godson of Mrs. Dunlop, 
to whom tii\s letter refers, died at the age of fourteen 
he was a iine and a promising youth.] 

Mlisland, 11th April, 1791. 
I AM once more able, my honoured friend, to 
return you, with my own hand, thanks for th« 
many instances of your friendship, and particu- 
larly for your kind anxiety in this last disaster, 
that my evil genius had in store for me. How- 
ever, life is chequered — joy and sorrow — for on 
Saturday morning last, Mrs. Burns made me a 
present of a fine boy ; rather stouter, but not 
so handsome as your godson was at his time of 
life. Indeed I look on your little namesake to 
be my chef d'oeuvre in that species of mauufao 
ture, as I look on Tam o' Shanter to be mj 
standard performance in the poetical line 'Tij 



tm 



GEJ^ERAL COKRESPONDEf^CE 



true, both the one and the other discover a spice 
df roguish waggery, that might perhaps be as 
well spared; but then they also show, in my 
opinion, a force of genius and a finishing polish 
that I despair of ever excelling. Mrs. Burns is 
getting stout again, and laid as liistily about her 
to- day at breakfast, as a reaper from the corn- 
'fidge. That is the peculiar privilege and bless- 
iag of our hale, sprightly damsels, that are bred 
among the hay and heather. We cannot hope for 
that highly polished mind, that charming deli- 
cacy of soul, whixjh is found among the female 
world in the more elevated stations of life, and 
which is certainly by far the most bewitching 
charm in the famous cestus of Venus. It is in- 
deed such an inestimable treasure, that where 
it can be had in its native heavenly purity, un- 
stained by some one or other of the many shades 
of affectation, and unalloyed by some one or 
other of the many species of caprice, I declare 
to Heaven, I should think it cheaply purchased 
at the expense cf every other earthly good ! 
But as this angelic creature is, I am afraid, 
extremely rare in any station and rank of life, 
and totally denied to such a humble one as mine, 
we meaner mortals must put up with the next 
rank of female excellence — as fine a figure and 
face we can produce as any rank of life what- 
ever ; rustic, native grace ; unaffected modesty, 
and unsullied purii'^ ature's mother-wit, and 
the rudiments ot taste ; a simplicity of soul, un- 
suspicious of, because unacquainted with, the 
crooked ways of a selfish, interested, disingenu- 
ous world ; and the dearest charm of all the rest, 
a yielding sweetness of disposition, and a gener- 
ous warmth of heart, grateful for love on our 
part, and ardently glowing with a more than 
equal return ; these, with a healthy frame, a 
BOTimd, vigorous constitution, which your higher 
r^aks can scarcely ever hope to enjoy, are the 
sharms of lovely woman in my humble walk of 
1\te. 

This is the greatest effort my broken arm has 
/es made. Do let me hear, by first post, how 
eher petit Monsieur comes on with his small-pox. 
Jfay almighty goodness preserve and restore 
him ! R. B. 



CCXVI. 



TO 



[That bis works found their way to the newspa5:>ers, 
««8d have occasioned no surprise : the poet gave copies 



of his favourite pieces freely to his friends, as soon M 
they were written : who, in their turn, spread their faaw 
among their acquaintances.] 

EUisland, 1791. 
Dear Sir, 
I AM exceedingly to blame in not writing you 
long ago ; but the truth is, that I am the raosi 
indolent of all human beings ; and when I ma- 
triculate in the herald's office, I intend that 
my supporters shall be two sloths, my crest a 
slow-worm, and the motto, " Deil tak the fore- 
most." So much by way of apology for not 
thanking you sooner for your kind execution of 
my commission. 

I would have sent you the poem ; but some- 
how or other it found its way into the publifl 
papers, where you must have seen it. 
I am ever, dear Sir, 

Yours sincerely, 

R. B. 



CCXVII. 



TO 



[This singular letter was sent by Burns, it is believed 
to a critic, who had taken him to task about obscure la»' 
guage, and imperfect grammar.] 

EUisland, 1791. 
Thof eunuch of language : thou Englishman, 
who never ^ as south the Tweed: thou servile 
echo of fashionable barbarisms ; thou quack, 
vending the nostrtim*' >f empirical elocution: 
thou marriage-maker between vowels and con- 
sonants, on the Gretna-green of caprice : thou 
cobler, botching the flimsy socks of bombast 
oratory : thou blacksmith, hammering the rivets 
of absurdity: thou butcher, imbruing thy hands 
in the bowels of orthography: thou arch- 
heretic in pronunciation: thou pitch-pipe of 
affected emphasis: thou carpenter, mortising the 
awkward joints of jarring sentences : thou 
squeaking dissonance of cadence : thou pimp of 
gender : thou Lion Herald to silly etymology : 
thou antipode of grammar : thou executioner of 
construction : thou brood of the speech-distract- 
ing builders of the Tower of Babel ; thou lingual 
confusion worse confounded : thou scape-gaiiowi 
from the land of syntax : thou scavenger of 
mood and tense : thou murderous accoucheur 
of infant learning; thou ignis fatuus, misleading 
the steps of benighted ignorance : thou pickle- 
herring in the puppet-show of nonsense : ihot; 
faithful recorder of barbarous idiom: thou 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



4in 



^rsecutor of syllabication : thou baleful meteor, 
foretelling and facilitating the rapid approach 
9t Nox and Erebus. R. B. 



COXVIII. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

[To Clarke, the Schoolmaster, Burns, it is said, ad- 
iressed several letters, which on his death were put into 
the fire by his widow, because of their license of lan- 
aage.] 

11th June, 1791. 

Let me interest you, my dear Cunningham, 
in behalf of the gentleman who waits on you 
with this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of Moffat, prin- 
cipal schoolmaster there, and is at present suf- 
fering severely under the persecution of one or 
two powerful individuals of his employers. He 
is accused of harshness to boys that were 
placed under his care. God help the teacher, 
if a man of sensibility and genius, and such is 
my friend Clarke, when a booby father presents 
him with his booby son, and insists on lighting 
up the rays of science, in a fellow's head whose 
skull is impervious and inaccessible by any 
other way than a positive fracture with a cud- 
gel : a fellow whom in fact it savours of impiety 
to attempt making a scholar of, as he has been 
marked a blockhead in the book of fate, at the 
almighty fiat of his Creator. 

The patrons of Moffat-school are, the minis- 
ters, magistrates, and town-council of Edin- 
Durgh, and as the business comes now before 
them, let me beg my dearest friend to do every- 
thing in his power to serve the interests of a 
man of genius and worth, and a man whom I 
particularly respect and esteem. You know 
Bome good fellows among the magistracy and 
council, but particularly you have much to say 
with a reverend gentleman to whom you have the 
honour of being very nearly related, and whom 
this country and age have had the honour to pro- 
duce. I need not name the historian of Charles 
V. I tell him through the medium of his 
nephew's influence, that Mr. Clarke is a gentle- 
man who will not disgrace even his patronage. 
L know the merits of the cause thoroughly, and 
say it, that my friend is falling a sacrifice to 
prejudiced ignorance. 

God help the children of dependence ! Hated 
snd persecuted by their enemies, and tco often, 
•JdB ! almost unexcepti'nably, received by their 



friends with disrespect and reproach, under th? 
thin disguise of cold civility and humiliating 
advice. 0! to be a sturdy savage, stalking ir 
the pride of his independence, amid the solitarj 
wilds of his deserts ; rather than in civilized 
life, helplessly to tremble for a subsistence, 
precarious as the caprice of a fellow-cre%t7ire I 
Every man has his virtues, and no man .e witli- 
out his failings ; and curse n that privilegeo 
plain-dealing of friendship, which, in the hcit" 
of my calamity, cannot reach forth the helping 
hand with'^ut at the same time pointing out 
those fail' igs, and apportioning them their 
share in jirocuring my present distress. My 
friends, for such the world calls ye, and such ye 
think yourselves to be, pass by my virtues if 
you please, but do, also, spare my follies : the 
first will witness in my breast for themselves, 
and the last will give pain enough to the inge 
nuous mind without you. And since deviating 
more or less from the paths of propriety and 
rectitude, must be incident to human nature, do 
thou, Fortune, put it in my power, always from 
myself, and of myself, to bear the consequence 
of those errors ! I do not want to be inde- 
pendent that I may sin, but I want to be inde 
pendent in my sinning. 

To return in this rambling letter to the sub- j 
ject I set out with, let me recommend my friend, 
Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and good of- 
fices ; his worth entitles him to the one, and hia 
gratitude will merit the other. I long much to 
hear from you. 

Adieu ! 

R B 



CCXIX. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

[Lord Buchan printed this letter in his Essay on tin 
Life of Thomson, in 1792. His lordship invHed Biiri.e XC 
leave his corn unreaped, walk from EllisluuG to Pry \>u'^h 
and help him to crown Thom.son's bust with bayn, ca Kd 
nam Hill, on the 22d of September.] 

Ellisland, August 22th, 1791. 
My Lokd, 
Language sinks under the ardour of my fet\ 
ings wlien I would thank your lordship for the 
honour you have done me in inviting me to mak« 
one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson. 
In my first enthusiasm in reading the card you 
did me the honour to write me, I overlooke^f 



«.-8 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



every obstacle, and determined to go ; but I fear 
It will not be in my power. A week or two's 
absence, in the very middle of my harvest, is 
what I much doubt I dare not venture on. I 
once already made a pilgrimage up the whiole 
course of the Tweed, and fondly would I take 
Uie same delightful journey down the windings 
^f that delightful stream. 

Your lordship hints at an ode for the occasion: 
lut who would write after Collins ? I read 
over his verses to the memory of Thomson, and 
despaired, — I got indeed to the length of three 
or four stanzas, in the way of addi ess to the 
shade of the bard, on crowning his bust. I 
ghall trouble your lordship with the subjoined 
copy of them, which, I am afraid, will be but too 
convincing a proof how unequal I am to the 
task. However, it affords me an opportunity 
of approaching your lordship, and declaring how 
sincerely and gratefully I have the honour to 
be. &c., R. B. 



CCXX. 

TO MR. THOMAS SLOAN. 

[Thomas Sloanwas a west of Scotland man, and seems, 
though not much in correspondence, to have been on inti- 
mate terms with Burns.] 

Ellisland, Sept. 1, 1791. 
My deak Sloan, 

Suspense is worse than disappointment, for 
that reason I hurry to tell you that I just now 
learn that Mr. Ballantyne does not choose to 
interfere more in the business. I am truly 
sorry for it, but cannot help it. 

You blame me for not writing you sooner, 
but you will please to recollect that you omitted 
one little necessary piece of information ; — your 
address. 

However, you know equally well, my hurried 
life, indolent temper, and strength of attach- 
ment. It must be a longer period than the 
longest life " in the world's hale and undegene- 
rate days," that will make me forget so dear a 
friend as Mr. Sloan. I am prodigal enough at 
times, but I will not part with such a treasure 
as that. 

I can easily enter into the emharras of your 
present sitiiation. You know my favourite quo- 
tation from Young — 

, f< On leason build Resolve \ 

Th9 eoliimn of true majesty in man ;" 



and that other favourite one from Thomson' 

Alfred— 

" What proves the hero truly great. 
Is never, never to despair." 

Or shall I quote you an author of your ac 
quaintance ? 

" ^Whether doing, sttffering, ci S'OKBKikg W& 

You may do miracles by — persevering." 

I have nothing new to tell you. The lev 
friends we have are going on in the old way 
I sold my crop on this day se'ennight, and soU 
it very well. A guinea an acre, on an average; 
above value. But such a scene of drunkennesi 
was hardly ever seen in this country. Aftet 
the roup was over, about thirty people engaged 
in a battle, every man for his own hand, arj 
fought it out for three hours. Nor was the 
scene much better in the house. No fighting, 
indeed, but folks lying drunk on the floor, and 
decanting, until both my dogs got so drunk by 
attending them, that they could not stand. You 
will easily guess how I enjoyed the scene ; as I 
was no farther over than you used to see me. 

Mrs. B. and family have been in Ayrshir«> 
these many weeks. 

Farewell ; and God bless you, my dear friend ! 

R. B. 



CCXXI. 
TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM. 

[The poem enclosed was the Lament for James, Ear' 
of Giencairn : it is probable that the Earl's sister i keu 
the verses, for <,hey v.'ere printed soon afterwards.] 

My Lady, 
I WOULD., as usual, have availed myself of thf 
privilege your goodness has allowed me, of send- 
ing you anything I compose in my poetical way ; 
but as I had resolved, so soon as the shock oi 
my irreparable loss would allow me, to pay •& 
tribute to my late benefactor, I determined to 
make that the first piece I should do myself the 
honour of sending you. Had the wing of my 
fancy been equal to the ardour of my heart the 
enclosed had been much more worthy your peru- 
sal : as it is, I beg leave to lay it at your lady- 
ship's feet. As all the world knows mv obliga- 
tions to the late Earl of Giencairn, I would wish 
to shew as openly that my heart glowis, and will 
ever glow, with the most grateful sense and re- 
membrance of) his lordsMp's goodness. Thi 



OF KOBjiiKr BUENS. 



ir^ 



sables I did myself the honour to wear to his 
lordship's memory, were not the ** mockery of 
woe " Nor shall my gratitude pei'ish with me ! 
— i' imong my children I shall have a son that 
h ss a heart, he shall hand it down to his child 
as a family honour, and a family debt, that 
my dearest existence I owe to the noble house 
of Gleneairn ! 

1 was about to say, my lady, that if you think 
the poem may venture to see the light, I would, 
iti 3omo way or other, give it to the world, 

R. B. 



CCXXII. 



TO MR. A INS LIE. 

[It has been said that the poet loved to aggravate his fol- 
lies *n his '"riends : but that this tone of aggravation was 
oftv, irov^tal, »,i:.s ki--:jr^ at we. as fieri, aighi be 
*ited.] 

MUslana, 1791. 
Mt dear Ainslie, 

Can you minister to a mind diseased ? can 
Tou, amid the horrors of penitence, remorse, 

head-ache, nausea, and all the rest of the d d 

hounds of hell, that beset a poor wretch, who 
has been guilty of the sin of drunkenness — can 
you speak peace to a troubled soul ? 

Miserable perdu that I am, I have tried every- 
thing that used to amuse me, but in vain : here 
must I sit, a monument of the vengeance laid 
up in store for the wicked, slowly counting every 
chick of the clock as it slowly, slowly, numbers 
jver these lazy scoundrels of hours, who, d — n 
them, are ranked up before me, every one at 
his neighbour's backside, and every one with a 
burthen of anguish on his back, to pour on my 
(fevoted head — and there is none to pity me. 
My wife scolds me ! my business torments me, 
and my sins come staring me in the face, every 
one telling a more bitter tale than his fellow. — 
When I tell you even * * * has lost its power 
♦.o please, you will guess something of my hell 
within, ani all around me — I begun Elibanks 
tkf.d Elibraesy but the stanzas fell unenjoyed, and 
Oifinished from my listless tongue : at last I 
luckily thought of reading over an old letter of 
jrcurg, that lay by me in my book-case, and I 
felt something for the first time since I opened 

my eyes, of pleasurable oxistence. Well — 

I begin to breathe a little, since I began to write 
tc you_ How are you, and what are you doing ? 
How goes Law? Apropos, for connexion's sake, 
ta not address to me supervisor, for that is an 



honour I cannot pretend to — I am on the list, 
as we call it, for a supervisor, and will be called 
out by and bye to act as one ; but at pre- 
sent, I am a simple gauger, tho' t'other day 1 
got an appointment to an excise division of 2bl. 
per annvm better than the rest. Mj "Resent 
inccme, down money, is 70/. per ajinum. 

I have one or two good fellows here vh^M 
you would be glad to know. 

^ B. 



CCXXIII. 
TO COL. FULLARTON. 

OF FULLARTON. 

[This letter was first published in the Edinburgo 
Chrcmicle.] 

Ellisland, 1791. 

f'lR, 

I HAVE just this minute got the frank, and 
next minute must send it to post, else I purposed 
to have sent you two or three other bagatelles, 
that might have amused a vacant hour about 
as well as ** Six excellent new songs," or, the 
Aberdeen * Prognostication for the year to come.' 
I shall probably trouble you soon with another 
packet. About the gloomy month of November, 
when 'the people of England hang and drown 
themselves,' anything generally is better than 
one's own thought. 

Fond as I may be of my own productions, i4 
is not for their sake that I am so anxious to 
send you them. I am ambitious, covetously 
ambitious of being known to a gentleman whom 
I am proud to call my countryman; a gentle- 
man who was a foreign ambassador as soon aa 
he was a man, and a leader of armies as soon 
as he was a soldier, and that with m eclat un- 
known to the usual minions of a court, men 
who, with all the adventitious advantages of 
princely connexions and princely fortune, mist 
yet, like the caterpillar, labour a whole lifetim^s 
before they reach the wished height, there tc 
roost a stupid chrysalis, and doze out the re- 
maining glimmering existence of old age 

If the gentleman who accompanied you when 
you did me the honour of calling on me, ie wJlb 
you, I beg to be respectfully remembered ♦" 
him. 

I have the honour to be, 

Sir, 
Your highly obliged, and most devcteo 
Humble servant, 

R. B 



CCXXIV. 
TO MISS DAVIES. 

[Thia accomplished lady was the youngBst daughter 
ni Dr. Davies, of Tenby, in Pembrokeshire : she Wf<s re- 
lated to the Riddels of Friar's Carse, and o ae of her sis- 
.e*8 married Captain Adarn Gordon, of the noble family 
J Ksnmure. She had both taste and skill in verse.] 

It is impossible, Madam, that the generous 
wirmth and angelic purity of your youthful 
tnind, can have any idea of that moral disease 
under which I unhappily must rank as the chief 
of sinners; I mean a torpitude of the moral 
powers, that may be called, a lethargy of con- 
science. In vain Remorse rears her horrent 
crest, and rouses all her snakes ; beneath the 
deadly fixed eye and leaden hand of Indolence, 
their wildest ire is charmed into the torpor of 
the bat, slumbering out the rigours of winter, 
in the chink of a ruined wall. Nothing less, 
Madam, could have made me so long neglect 
your obliging commands. Indeed I had one 
apology — the bagatelle was not worth present- 
ing. Besides, so strongly am I interested in 
Miss Davies's fate and welfare in the serious 
business of life, amid its chances and changes,' 
that to make her the subject of a silly ballad 
is downright mockery of these ardent feel- 
ings ; 'tis like an impertinent jest to a dying 
friend. 

Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity between 
our wishes and our powers ? Why is the most 
generous wish to make others blest, impotent 
and ineffectual — as the idle breeze that crosses 
the pathless desert! In my walks of life I 
have met with a few people to whom how gladly 
would I have said — "Go, be happy! I know 
that your hearts have been wounded by the 
scon c^ the proud, whom accident has placed 
above you- -or worse still, in whose hands are, 
perhaps, placed many of the comforts of your 
'\ie. But there ! ascend that rock, Indepen- 
Jeice, and look justly down on their little- 
ness of soul. Make the worthless tremble 
under your indignation, and the foolish sink 
before your contempt ; and largely impart that 
happiness to others, which, I am certain, will 
give yourselves so much pleasure to bestow." 

Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this 
ie'-ghtful revery, and find it all a dream ? 
Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must I 
and myself poor and powerless, incapable of 
•riping one tear from the eye of pity, or of add- 



ing one comfort to the friend I love ! — Out upon 
the world, say I, that its affairs are adminis- 
tered so ill ! They talk of reform ; — good Hea 
ven ! what a reform would I make among th* 
sons and even the daughters of men ! — Down 
immediatelj'^, should go fools fiom the high 
places, where misbegotten chance has perke<l 
them up, and through life should they skulkj 
ever haunted by their native insignificance, as 
the body marches accompanied by its shadow, 
— As for a much more formidable class, the 
knaves, I am at a loss what to do with them : 
had I a world, there should not be a knave 
in it. 

But the hand that could give,. I would libe- 
rally fill : and I would pour delight on tha 
heart that could kindly forgive, and generously 
love. 

Still the inequalities of life are, among men, 
comparatively tolerable — but there is a delicacy, 
a tenderness, accompanying every view in which 
we can place lovely Woman, that are grated 
and shocked at the rude, capricious distinc- 
tions of fortune. Woman is the blood-royal of 
life : let there be slight degrees of precedency 
among them — but let them be all sacred.-— 
Whether this last sentiment be right or wrong. 
I am not accountable ; it is an original compo- 
nent feature of my mind. R. B. 



CCXXV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[Burns, says Cromek, acknowledged that a refined ana 
accomplished woman was a being all but new to hin 
till he went to Edinburgh, and received letters from Mrs 
Dunlop.] 

Ellisland, 17th December, 1791 
Many thanks to you. Madam, for your gu'>d 
news respecting the little floweret and the mo- 
ther-plant. I hope my poetic prayers have 
been heard, and will be answered up to the 
warmest sincerity of their fullest extent ; and 
then Mrs. Henri will find her little darling the 
representative of his late parent, in everything 
but his abridged existence. 

I have just finished the following song, which 
to a lady the descendant of Wallace — and manv 
heroes of his true illustrious line — and herself 
the mother of several soldiers, needs neither 
preface nor apology. 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



441 



* Scene — a field of battle — titne of the day, evening ; 
the wounded and dying of the victorious army are 
supposed ' join in the following 

SONG OF DEATH. 

f ar€wer, thou fail* day, thou green earth, and 
jft skies 
Now gay with the bright setting sun ; 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender 
ties — 
Our race of existence is run ! 

The circumstance that gave rise to the fore- 
going verses was, looking over with a musical 
friend M'Donald's collection of Highland airs, 
I wa.s struck with one, an Isle of Skye tune, 
ep^-uled " Oran and Aoig, or, The Song of 
L»oath," to the measure of which I have adapted 
my stanzas. I have of late composed two or 
tnree other little pieces, which, ere yon full- 
orbed moon, whose broad impudent face now 
stares at old mother earth all night, shall have 
shrunk into a modest crescent, just peeping 
forth at dewy dawn, I shall find an hour to tran- 
scribe for you. A Dieuje vous commende. 

R. B. 



CCXXVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

iThnt 'be poet spoke mildly concerning the rebuke 
(Vhich be received from the Excise, on what he calls his 
political delinquencies, his letter toErskine of Mar suffi- 
erently proves.] 

bth January, 1792. 

You see my hurried life. Madam : I can only 
command starts of time ; however, I am glad of 
one thing; since I finished the other sheet, the 
political bla* that threatened my welfare is 
overbbwn. 1 nave corresponded with Commis- 
«ioncr Graham, for the board had made me the 
subject of their animadversions ; and now I 
iiftve the pleasure of informing you, that all is 
Bet to rights in that quarter. Now as to these 

jaformers, may the devil be let loose to 

hut, hold I I yas praying most fervently in my 
last sheet, and I must not so soon fall a swear- 
ing in this. 

Alas I how little do the wantonly or idly of- 
ficious think what mischief they do by their ma- 
licious insinuations, indirect impertinence, or 
thoushtles? "■ labbings. What a difference there 



is in intrinsic worth, candour, benevolence, ge« 
nerosity, kindness, — in all the charities and 
all the virtues, between one class of humaa 
beings and another ! For instance, the amiable 
circle I so lately mixed with in the hospital la 
hall of Dunlop, their generous hearts — theit 
uncontaminated dignified minds — their infcrme(i 
and polished understandings — what a contrast 
when comparod — if such comparing wcr® not 
downright sacrilege — with the soul of the mis- 
creant Avho can deliberately plot the destruction 
of an honest man that never offended him, and 
with a grin of satisfaction see the unfortunate 
being, his faithful wife, and prattling innocents, 
turned over to beggary and ruin ! 

Your cup, my dear Madam, arrived safe. I 
had two worthy fellows dining with me the 
other day, when I, with great formality, pro- 
duced my whigmeeleerie cup, and told them 
that it had been a family-piece among the de 
scendants of William Wallace. This roused 
such an enthusiasm, that they insisted on bum- 
pering the punch round in it ; and by and by, 
never did your great ancestor lay a Suthron 
more completely to rest, than for a time did 
your cup my two friends. Apropos, this is the 
season of wishing. My God bless you, my dear 
friend, and bless me, the humblest and sincerest 
of your friends, by granting you yet many re- 
turns of the season! May all good things at- 
tend you and yours wherever they are scattered 
over the earth I 

R. B 



CCXXVII. 
TO MR. WILLIAM SMELLIJE 

PRINTER. 

[When Burns sends his warmest wishes to Sme'Ue ; %a 
prays that fortune may never place his subsistenc a tl « 
mercy of a knave, or set his character on the judjjrnen 
of a fool, he had his political enemies probably m hi 
aiind.] 

Dumfries, lid January, 1792. 
I SIT down, my dear Sir, to introduce i», young 
lady to you, and a lady in the first ranks of 
fashion too. What a task ! to you — who care uo 
more for the herd of animals called young la- 
dies, than you do for the herd of animals called 
young gentlemen. To you — who despise and 
detest the groupings and combinations of fashion, 



fcs an idiot painter that seems indnstrious to 
place staring fools and unprincipled knaves in 
the foreground of his picture, while men of 
sense and honesty are too often thrown in the 
dimmest shades. Mrs. Riddel, who will take 
this letter to town with her, and send it to you, 
is a character that, even in your own way, as 
a naturalist and a philosopher, would be an 
acquisition to your acquaintance. The lady, 
too, is a votary to the muses ; and as I think 
siyself somewhat of a judge in my own trade, 
I assure you that her verses, always correct, 
and often elegant, are much beyond the com- 
mon run of the lady -poetesses of the day. She 
is a great admirer of your book ; and, hearing 
me say that I was acquainted with you, she 
begged to be known to you, as she is just going 
to pay her first visit to our Caledonian capital. 
I t^ld. her that her best way was, to desire her 
near relation, and your intimate triend, Oraig- 
darroch, to have you at his house while she 
was there ; and lest you might think of a lively 
West Indian girl, of eighteen, as girls of eigh- 
teen too often deserve to be thought of, I should 
take care to remove that prejudice. To be im- 
partial, however, in appreciating the lady's 
merits, she has one unlucky failing : a failing 
which you will easily discover, as she seems 
rather pleased with indulging in it ; and a fail- 
ing that you will easily pardon, as it is a sin 
which very much besets yourself; — where she 
dislikes, or despises, she is apt to make no more 
a secret of it, than where she esteems and 
respects. 

I will not present you with the unmeaning 
compliments of the season, but I will send you my 
warmest wishes and most ardent prayers, that 
Fortune may never throw your subsistence to 
the mercy of a Knave, or set your character 
on the judgment of a Fool; but that, upright 
and erect, you may walk to an honest grave, 
where men of letters shall say, here lies a man 
who did honour to science, and men of worth 
iball say, here lies a man who did honour to 
human nature. R. B. 



ccxxvin. 

TO MR. W. NICOL. 

("Tins ironical letter was in answer to one from Nicol, 
intaining counsel and reproof.] 

20th February, 1792. 
') THOU, wiriest among the wise, meridian blaze 



of prudence, full-moon of disci etijn, and cMef 
of many counsellors ! How infinitely is thy 
puddle-headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, 
round-headed slave indetied to thy super-emi. 
nent goodness, that from 'he luminous paoh of 
thy own right-lined rectitude, thou lo ikest be«' 
nignly down on an erring wretch, cf whom it« 
zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of c-&l» 
culation, from the simple copulation of units, 
up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions ! Maj 
one feeble ray of that light of wisdom which 
darts from thy sensorium, straight as the arrow 
of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspira- 
tion, may it be my portion, so that I may be 
less unworthy of the face and favour of that 
father of proverbs and master of maxims, that 
antipode of folly, and magnet among the sages, 
the wise and witty Willie Nicol ! Amen ! Amen I 
y^a, f<> be H I 

For me ! i am a beast, a reptile, and know 
nothing ! From the cave of my ignorance, amid 
the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential fumes 
of my political heresies, I look up to thee, as 
doth a toad through the iron-barred lucerne of 
a pestiferous dungeon, to the cloudless glory of 
a summer sun ! Sorely sighing in bitterness of 
soul, I say, when shall my name be the quota- 
tion of the wise, and my countenance be the 
delight of the godly, like the illustrious lord ol 
Laggan's many hills ? As for him, his works 
are perfect : never did the pen of calumny blur 
the fair page of his reputation, nor the bolt of 
hatred fly at his dwelling. 

Thou mirror of purity, when shall the elfine 
lamp of my glimmerous understanding, purged 
from sensual appetites and gross desires, shine 
like the constellation of thy intellectual powers ! 
— As for thee, thy thoughts are pure, and thy 
lips are holy. Never did the unhallowed breath 
of the pDwers of darkness, and the pleasures of 
darkness, pollute the sacred flame of thy sky- 
descended and heaven-bound desires : never did 
the vapours of impurity stain the uncloiided 
serene of thy cerulean imagination. that like 
thine were the tenor of my life, like thine the 
tenor of my conversation ! then should no friend 
fear for my strength, no enemy rejoice in my 
weakness ! Then should I lie down and rise up, 
and none to make me afraid. — May thy pity 
and thy prayer be exercised for, thou lamp 
of wisdom and mirror of morality ! thy devote<J 
slave. R. B. 



OF KOBERT BURNS. 



414 



CCXXIX. 



TO FRANCIS GROSE, ESQ., F.S.A. 

''Captain Grose \ras introduced to Burns, by h.s brother 
intiquary, of Fria' s Carse : he was collecting materials 
.&r DIB woik O', *:^ • Antiquities of Scotland.] 



Si*:, 



Dumfries, 1792. 



i BELiAffi among all our Scots Literati you 
kA-^e not met with Professor Dugald Stewart, 
Irho fills the moral philosophy chair in the Uni- 
versity of Edinburgh. To say that he is a man 
of the first parts, and what is more, a man of 
the first worth, to a gentleman of your general 
acquaintance, and who so much enjoys the 
luxury of unencumbered freedom and undis- 
turbed privacy, is not perhaps recommendation 
enough: — but when I inform you that Mr. 
Stewart's principal characteristic is your fa- 
vourite feature ; that sterling independence of 
mind, which, though every man's right, so few 
men have the courage to claim, and fewer still, 
the magnanimity to support: — when I tell you 
that, unseduced by splendour, and undisgusted 
by wretchedness, he appreciates the merits of 
the various actors in the great drama of life, 
merely as they perform their parts — in short, 
)tie is a man after your own heart, and I comply 
with his earnest request in letting you know 
that he wishes above all things to meet with 
you. His house, Catrine, is within less than a 
mile of Sorn Castle, which you proposed visit- 
ing ; or if you could transmit him the enclosed, 
he would with the greatest pleasure meet you 
anywhere in the neighbourhood. I write to 
Ayrshire to inform Mr. Stewart that I have 
acquitted myself of my promise. Should your 
time and spiiits permit your meeting with Mr. 
Stewart^ 'tis well ; if not, I hope you will for- 
give this liberty, and I have at least an oppor- 
tanHy ff assiiilng you with what truth and 
•Jrprct, 

I an.. Sir, 

Your great admirer, 

And very humble servant, 

R. B. 



CCXXX. 

TO FRANCIS GROSE, ESQ., F.S.A. 

This letts' interesting to all who desire to see how a 
poet work's beauty and regularity out of a vulgar tradi- 
li«o, was first ptiuted by Sir Egerton Brydges, in the 
•C'ensara Literaria."] 



Dumfries, 1792. 

Among the many witch stqries I have heard, 
relating to Alloway kirk, I distinctly remembeJ 
only two or three. 

Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls 
of wind, and bitter blasts of hail ; in short, ca 
such a night as the devil would choose to take 
the air in ; a farmer or farmer's servant was plod 
ding and plashing homeward with his plougb 
irons on his shoulder, having been getting some 
repairs on them at a neighbouring smithy. Hii 
way lay by the kirk of Alioway, and being ra- 
ther on the anxious look-out in approaching a 
place so well known to be a favourite haunt of 
the devil and the devil's friends and emissaries, 
he was struck aghast by discovering through 
the horrors of the storm and stormy night, a 
light, which on his nearer approach plainly 
showed itself to proceed from the h> : jte . 
edifice. Whether he had been fortified from 
above, on his devout supplication, as is custo- 
mary with people when they suspect the imme- 
diate presence of Satan ; or whether, according 
to another custom, he had got courageously 
drunk at the smithy, I will not pretend to deter- 
mine ; but so it was that he ventured to go up 
to, nay, into, the very kirk. As luck would have 
it, his temerity came off unpunished. 

The memBers of the infernal junto were all 
out on some midnight business or other, and he 
saw nothing but a kind of kettle or caldron, de- 
pending from the roof, over the fire, simmering 
some heads of unchristened children, limbs of 
executed malefactors, &c., for the business of 
the night. — It was in for a penny in for a pound, 
with the honest ploughman : so without cere- 
mony he unhooked the caldron from off the fire, 
and pouring out the damnable ingredients, in- 
verted it on his head, and carried it fairly home, 
where it remained long in the family, a living 
evidence of the truth of the story. 

Another story, which I can prove to be eqiiallj 
authentic, was as follows : 

On a market day in the town of Ayr, a farmer 
from Carrick, and consequently whose way ]ay 
by the very gate of AHoway kirk-yard, in order 
to cross the river Doon at the old bridge, which 
is about two or three hundred yards farther oa 
than the said gate, had been detained by his 
business, till by the time he reached Alloway it 
was the wizard hour, between night and mom* 
ing. 

Though he was terrified with a blaze streair 



mg from the kirk, yet it is a well-known fact 
that to turn back on these occasions is run- 
ning bj far the greatest risk of mischief, he 
prudently advanced on his road. When he had 
reached the gate of the kirk-yard, he was sur- 
prised and entertained, through the ribs and 
arches of an old gothic window, which still 
faces the highway, to see a dance of witches 
aierrily footing it round their old sooty black- 
guard master, who was keeping them all alive 
with the power of his bag-pipe. The farmer 
Dtopping his horse to observe them a little, could 
plainly descry the faces of many old women of 
his acquaintance and neighbourhood. How the 
gentleman was dressed tradition does not say ; 
but that the ladies were all in their smocks : 
and one of them happening unluckily to have a 
smock which was considerably too short to an- 
swer all the purpose of that piece of dress, our 
farmer was so tickled, that he involuntarily burst 
out, with a loud laugh, '< Weel luppen, Maggy 
wi' the short sark !" and recollecting himself, 
instantly spurred his horse to the top of his 
speed. I need not mention the universally 
known fact, that no diabolical power can pur- 
sue you beyond the middle of a running stream. 
Lucky it was for the poor farmer that the river 
Doon was so near, for notwithstanding the speed 
of his horse, which was a good one, against he 
reached the middle of the arch of the bridge, 
and consequently the middle of the stream, the 
pursuing, vengeful hags, were so close at his 
heels, that one of them actually sprung to seize 
him ; but it was too late, nothing was on her 
side of the stream, but the horse's tail, which 
immediately gave way at her infernal grip, as 
if blasted by a stroke of lightning ; but the far- 
mer was beyond her reach. However, the un- 
sightly, tailless condition of the vigorous steed 
was, to the last hour of the noble creature's life, 
an awful warning to the Carrick farmers, not to 
stay' too late in Ayr markets. 

The last relation I shall give, though equally 
trae is not so well identified as the two former, 
with regard to the scene ; but as the best au- 
ihorities give it for Alloway, I shall relate it. 

On a summer's evening, about the time that 
aature puts oil her sables to mourn the expiry 
of the cheerful day, a shepherd boy, belonging 
to a farmer in the immediate neighbourhood of 
A-lloway kirk, had just folded his charge, and 
pras returning home. As he passed the kirk, in 
ike adjoitung field, he fell in with a crew of men 



and women, who were busy pulling stems 3f ikt 
I iant Ragwort. He observed that as each per- 
son pulled a Ragwort, he or she got astride of it, 
and called out, *' Up horsie !" on which the Rag- 
wort flew off, like Pegasus, through the air with 
its rider. The foolish boy likewise pulled his 
Ragwort, and cried with the rest, "Up horsie !" 
and, strange to tell, away he flew with the com- 
pany. The ^rst stage at which the cavalcad* 
stopt, was a merchant's wine-cellar in Bordeaux, 
where, without saying by your leave, they 
quaffed away at the best the cellar could afford; 
until the morning, foe to the imps and works of 
darkness, threatened to throw light on the mat- 
ter, and frightened them from their carousals. 

The poor shepherd lad, being equally a stran- 
ger to the scene and the liquor, heedlessly got 
himself drunk ; and when the rest took horse, 
he fell asleep, and was found so next doy by 
some of the people belonging to the merchant. 
Somebody that understood Scotch, asking him 
what he was, he said such-a-one's herd in Al- 
loway, and by some means or other getting Lome 
again, he lived long to tell the world the won- 
drous tale. 

I am, &c., 

R B. 



CCXXXI. 
TO MR. S. CLARKE, 

EDINBURGH. 

[This introduction of Clarke, the musician, to the 
M'Murdo's of Drumlanrig, brought to two of the ladieg 
the choicest honours of the muse.] 

Juhj 1, 1792. 
Mr. Burns begs leave to present his most 
respectful compliments to Mr. Clarke. — Mr. B. 
some time ago did himself the honour of writing 
to Mr. C. respecting coming out to the coun- 
try, to give a little musical instruction in a 
highly respectable family, where Mr. C. may 
have his own terms, and may be as happy as 
indolence, the devil, and the gout will permit 
him. Mr. B. knows well how Mr. C. is en^ 
gaged with another family ; but cannot Mr. C. 
find two or three weeks to spare to each of them? 
Mr. B. is deeply impressed with, and awfully 
conscious of, the high importance of Mr. C.'a 
time, whether in the winged moments of sym- 
phonious exhibition, at the keys of harmony, 
while listening seraphs cease their own less i^ 



OF EOBEKT BURNS. 



4il 



igbtful strai. 2 ; or in the drowsy arms of slum- 
^'rous repose, in the arms of his dearly beloved 
plbowchair, where the frowsy, but potent power 
of indolence, circumfuses her vapours round, 
and shed? her dews on the head of her darling 
$on But half a line conveying half a meaning 
frim Ml , C. would make Mr. B. the happiest of 
Bior't'sils 



CCXXXII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[To enthusiastic fits of admiratiou for the young and 
'he be.iutiful, such as Burns has expressed in this letter, 
be loved to give wav : — ^we owe some of his best songs 
to these sallies.] 

Annan Water Foot, 22d August, 1792. 
Do not blame ra** for it, Madam ; — my own 
conscience, hackneyed and weather-beaten as it 
is in watching and reproving my vagaries, fol- 
lies, indolence, &c., has continued to punish me 

sufficiently. 

•Sf- * * * * 4«- * 

Do 3'ou think it possible, my dear and honoured 
friend, that I could be so lost to gratitude for 
many favours ; to esteem for much worth, anr?. 
to the honest, kind, pleasurable tie of, now old 
acquaintance, and I hope and a^i sure of pro- 
gressive, increasing friendship — as for a single 
iixjy not to think of you — to ask the Fates what 
ihey are doing and about to do with my rauch- 
loved friend and her wide-scattered connexions, 
ttud to beg if them to be as kind to you and 
yours as they possibly can ? 

x\propos ' (though how it is apropos, I have 
not leisure to explain,) do you not know that I 
am almost in love with an acquaintance of 
yours? — Almost! said I — I am in love, souse ! 
over head and ears, deep as the most unfathom- 
a>le abyss of the boundless ocean; but the word 
Love, owing to the intermingledoms of the good 
and the bad, the pure and the impure, in this 
world, being rather an equivocal term for ex- 
pressing one's sentiments and seHi^ations, I must 
do justice to the sacred purity of my attachment. 
Know, then, that the heart-struck awe ; the 
distant humble approach; the delip-ht we should 
have in gazing upon and listening to a messenger 
of heaven, appearing in all the unspotted purity 
of his celestial home, among the coarse, poi- 
nted, far inferior sons of men, to deliver to them 
kidings that make their hearts swim in joy, and 



their imaginations soar in transport — such, s* 
delighting and so pure, were the emotions of 
my soul on meeting the other day with Misa 

Lesley Baillie, your neighbour, at M . Mr 

B. with his two daughters, accompanied by Mr. 
H. of G. passing through Dumfries a few days 
ago, on their way to England, did me the honoar 
of calling on me; on which I took my iinrso 
(though God knows I could ill spare the time), 
and accompanied them fourteen or fifteen miles, 
and dined and spent the day with them. 'Twaa 
about nine, I think, when I left them, and 
riding home, I composed the following ballad, 
of which you will probably think you have a 
dear bargain, as it will cost you another groat 
of postage. You must know that there is ap 
old ballad beginning with — 

" My bonnie Lizzie Baillie 
I'll rowe thee in my plaidie, &c." 

So I parodied it as follows, which is literally 
the first copy, " unanointed, unanneal'd;" an 
Hamlet says. — 

saw ye bonny Lesley 
As she gaed o'er the border? 

She's gane like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 

So much for ballads. I regret that you are 
gone to the east country, as I am to be in Ayr- 
shire in about a fortnight. This world of ours, 
notwithstanding it has many good things in it 
yet it has ever had this curse, that two or three 
people, who would be the happier the oftener 
they met together, are, almost without exception, 
always so placed as never to meet but once or 
twice a-year, which, considering the few years 
of a man's life, is a very great " evil under the 
sun," which I do not recollect that Solomon has 
mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries of 
man. I hope and believe that there is a stata 
of existence beyond the grave, where the wortliy 
of this life will renew their former intimacies, 
with this endearing addition, that, "we meet 
to part no more !" 



" Tell us, ye dead, 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret, 
What 'tis you are, and we must shi rtlv be ?" 

t^i. 'A 

A thousand times have I made thi£ apostrophe 
to the departed sons of men, but not one of 
them has ever thought fit to answer the question. 
"0 that some courteous ghost would blab it 
out!" but it cannot be; you and I, my friend, 



146 



GENERAL COERESPONDENCE 



must make the experiment hy ourselves and for 
ourselves. However, I am so convinced that 
an unshaken faith in the doctrines of religion 
is not only necessary, by making us better men, 
bnt also by making us happier men, that I should 
take every care that your little godson, and 
every little creatar© that shall call me father, 
shall be taught them. 

So ends this heterDgeneous letter, written at 
■ this wild place of the world, in the intervals of 
my labour of discharging a vessel of rum from 
Antigua. R. B. 



CCXXXIII. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

[There is both bitterness and humour in this letter: the 
poe* discourses on many matters, and woman is among 
thfcm — but he places the bottle at his elbow as an antidote 
against the discourtesy of scandal.] 

Dumfries, 10th September, 1792. 

No ! I will not attempt an apology. — Amid all 
my hurry of business, grinding the faces of the 
publican and the sinner on the merciless wheels 
of the Excise ; making ballads, and then drink- 
ing, and singing them ! and, over and above all, 
the correcting the press-work of two different 
publications ; still, still I might have stolen five 
minutes to dedicate to one of the first of my 
friends and fellow-creatures. I might have done 
as I do at present, snatched an hour near "witch- 
ing time of night," and scrawled a page or two. 
I might have congratulated my friend on his 
miivriage ; or I might have thanked the Cale- 
donian archers for the honour they have done 
me (though, to do myself justice, I intended to 
nave done both in rhyme, else I had done both 
long ere now). Well, then, here's to your good 
health 1 for you must know, I have set a nip- 
parkin of toddy by me, just by way of spell, to 
ke^p away the meikle horned deil, or any of his 
ju^iltern irri^j who may be on their nightly 
i-cunds. 

But wha.c shall I write to you ? — " The voice 
said cry," and I said, "what shall I cry?"— 0, 
thou spirit! whatever thou art, or wherever 
thou makest thyself visible ! be thou a bogle by 
tho eerie side of an auld thorn, in the dreary 
glen throiTgh which the herd-callan maun bicker 
'ji his gloamia route frae the faulde ! — Be thou 

br >WDie, set, at dead of night, to thy task by 



the blazing ingle, or in the solitary barn, when 
the repercussions of thy iron flail half affright 
thyself as thou performest the work of twenty 
of the sons of men, ere the cock-crowing sum- 
mon thee to thy ample cog of substantial brose— 
Be thou a kelpie, haunting the ford or ferry^ 
in the starless night, mixing thy laughing yell 
with the howling of the storm and the roaring 
of the flood, as thou viewest the perils and mise- 
ri'^B of man on the foundering horse, or in tha 
tumbling boat! — or, lastly, be thou a ghost, 
paying thy nocturnal visits to the hoary ruins of 
decayed grandeur; or performing thy mystio 
rites in the shadow of the time-worn church, 
while the moon looks, without a cloud, on the 
silent ghastly dwellings of the dead around the§ ! 
or taking thy stand by the bedside of the' villain, 
or the murderer, pourtraying on his dreaming 
fancy,. pictures, dreadful as the horrors of un- 
veiled hell, and terrible as the wrath of incensed 
Deity! — Come, thou spirit, but not in these 
horrid forms ; come with the milder, gentle, easy 
inspirations, which thou breathest round the 
wig of a prating advocate, or the tete of a tea- 
sipping gossip, while their tongues run at the 
light-horse gallop of clish-maclaver for ever and 
ever — come and assist a poor devil who is quite 
jaded in the attempt to share half an idea among 
half a hundred words ; to fill up four quarto 
pages, while he has not got one single sentence 
of recollection, information, or remark worth 
putting pen to paper for. 

I feel, I feel the presence of supernatural as- 
sistance ! circled in the embrace of my elbow- 
chair, my breast labours, like the bloated Sybil 
on her three-footed stool, and like her, too, la- 
bours with Nonsense. — Nonsense, suspicious 
name ! Tutor, friend, and finger-post in the 
mystic mazes of law; the cadaverous puths of 
physic ; and particularly in the sightless soar- 
ings of SCHOOL DIVINITY, who, leaving Common 
Sense confounded at his strength of pinion, 
Reason, delirious with eyeing his giddy flight ; 
and Truth creeping back into the bottom of her 
well, cursing the hour that ever she offered 
her scorned alliance to the wizard power o/ 
Theologic Vision — raves abroad on all the winds. 
" On earth Discord ! a gloomy Heaven above, 
opening her jealous gates to the nineteenth 
thousandth part of the tithe of mankind ; ana 
below, an inescapable and inexorable hell, ex- 
_j:anding its leviathan jaws for the vast residue 
of mortals I ! !" — doctrine I comfo^+tb]'* and 



OF EGBERT BURNS, 



u: 



healing to the waary, wounded soul of man ! 
Fe sons and daughters of affliction, ye pauvres 
ti'iserables, to whom day brings no pleasure, 
ond night yields no rest, be comforted! <''Tis 
but one to nineteen hundred thousand that your 
situation will mend in this world ;" so, .alas, 
fce experience of the poor and the needy too 
cften affirms ; and 'tis nineteen hundred thou- 
h&nd to one, by the dogmas of"^****"*** 
that you will be damned eternally in the world 
to come ! 

Biit of all nonsense, religious nonsense is the 
most nonsensical ; so enough, and more than 
enough of it. Only, by the by, will you or can 
you tell me, my dear Cunningham, why a sec- 
tarian turn of mind has always a tendency to 
narrow and JUiberalize the heart? They are 
orderly; they may be just; nay, I have known 
them merciful : but still your children of sanc- 
tity move among their fellow-creatures with a 
nostril-snuffing putrescence, and a foot-spurn- 
ing filth, in short, with a conceited dignity that 
your titled * * * * ^ * * * or any other of 
your Scottish lordlings of seven centuries stand- 
ing, f'iiSplay when they accidentally mix among 
the many- aproned sons of mechanical life. I 
remember, in my plough-boy days, I could not 
conceive it possible that a noble lord could be a 
fool, or a godly man could be a knave.— How 
ignorant are plough-boys ! — Nay, I have since 
discovered that a ffodly woman may be a ***** ! 
—But hold — Here's t'ye again — this rum is 
generous Antigua, so a very unfit menstruum 
for scandal. 

.Apropos, how do you like, I mean really like, 
the married life ? Ah, my friend ! matrimony 
is quite a different thing from what your love- 
Biek youths and sighing girls take it to be ! But 
marriage, we are told, is appointed by God, 
and T shall never quarrel with any of his insti- 
tai: ns I am a husband of older standing than 
v'l an' ehall give you my ideas of the conjugal 
Etate, (in passant ; you know I am no Latinist, 
Is Cjt conjugal derived from jugum, a yoke?) 
'Tell, then, the scale of good wifeship I divide 
Lnt^ ten parts : — good-nature, four ; good sense, 
twj; wit, one; personal charms, viz. a sweet 
f»^e, eloquent eyes, fine limbs, graceful car- 
ri&jrc (I would add a fine waist too, but that is 
10 80f n spoilt you know), all these, one ; as for 
fte other qualities belonging to, or nttending 
»ri, a wife, such as fortune, connexions, educa- 
'on (I moan education ext'-aordinary) family, 



blood, &c., divide the two remaining degree! 
among them as you please ; only, remembei 
that all these minor properties must be ex- 
pressed hy fractions, for there is not any on« 
of them, in the aforesaid scale, entitled to the 
dignity of an integer. 

As for the rest of my fancies and reverie9-~ 
how I lately met with Miss Lesley Baillie, tJie 
most beautiful, elegant woman in the worif'— 
how I accompanied her and her father's family 
fifteen miles on their journey, out of pure devo- 
tion, to admire the loveliness of the works of 
God, in such an unequalled display of them — 
how, in galloping home at night, I made a 
ballad on her, of which these two stanzas maka 
a part — 

Thou, bonny Lesley, art a queen. 

Thy subjects we before thee ; 
Thou, bonny Lesley, art divine, 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 

* 

The very deil he could na scatho 

Whatever wad belang thee ! 
He'd look into thy bonnie face 

And say, "I canna wrang thee." 

— behold all these things are written in the 
chronicles of my imaginations, and shall be read 
by thee, my dear friend, and by thy beloved 
spouse, my other dear friend, at a more con- 
venient season. 

Now, to thee, and to thy before-designed 
5o5om-companion, be given the piecious things 
brought forth by the sun, and the precious 
things brought forth by the moon, and the 
benignest influences of the stars, and the living 
streams which flow from the fountains of life, 
and by the tree of life, for ever and ever t 
Amen! 



CCXXXIV. 
T M R. T II M S N. 

[Georg^e Tliomson, of Edinhnrgn. principal clerk tv 3« 
trustees for the encouraging the mnnufacturesofScotlartdj 
projected a work, entitled, "A select CoUertion of Origi- 
nal Scottish Airs, ff)r the Voice, to whi -h tira added Intro 
ductory and concluding Symphonies and A'^companimenti 
for the Piar.oforte and Violin, b)' Pieyel and Kozeluch. 
with select and characteristic Verses, by the most afi- 
mired Scottish Poets." To Burns he applied for help in 
the verse : he could not find a truer poet, nor one to wnonr 
Buch a work was more congenial.'' 



148 



dENEilAL CORRESPOi'\J).c^ivUiS 



Dumfries, Wth Sept. 1792. 



Sir. 



I HAVE just this moment got your letter. As 
the request you make to me will positively add 
to my enjoyments in complying with it, I shall 
enter into your undertaking with all the small 
portion of abilities I have, strained to their ut- 
most exertion by the impulse of enthusiasm. 
Only, don't hurry mo—" Deil takthe hindmost" 
is >;y no means the cri de guerre of my muse. 
Will you, as I am inferior to none of you in en- 
thusiastic attachment to the poetry and music 
of old Caledonia, and, since you request it, have 
cheerfully promised my mite of assistance — will 
you let me have a list of your airs with the first 
line of the printed verses you intend for them, 
that I may have an opportunity of suggesting 
any alteration that may occur to me ? You 
know 'tis in the way of my trade ; still leaving 
you, gentlemen, the undoubted right of pub- 
lishers to approve or reject, at your pleasure, 
for your own publication. Apropos, if yo«i are 
for English verses, there is, on my part, an end 
of the matter. Whether in the simplicity of the 
Dallad, or the pathos of the song, I can only 
hope to please myself in being allowed at least 
a sprinkling of our native tongue. English j 
verses, particularly the works of Scotsmen, 
that have merit, are certainly very eligible. 
"Tweedside!" "Ah! the poor shepherd's mourn- 
ful fate !" "Ah ! Chloris, could I now but sit," 
&c., you cannot mend;' but such insipid stuff 
as " To Fanny fair could I impart," &c., usually 
set to "The Mill, Mill, 0!" is a disgrace to 
the collections in which it has already appeared, 
and would doubly disgrace a collection that 
will have the very superior merit of yours. But 
more of this in the further prosecution of the 
Dusiness, if I am called on for my strictures 
and amendments — I say amendments, for I will 
Bot alter except where I myself, at least, think 
that I amend. 

As to any remuneration, you may think my 
B3ng8 either above or beluw price; for they 
ehould abs.ilutely be the one or the other. In 
the honest enthusiasm with which I embark in 
your undertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, 
hire, ate., would be downright prostitution of 
Boul ! a proof of eaeh of the songs that I com- 



pose or Amend, I shall receive as a favour. Ii 
the riifetic phrase of the season, " Gude speed 
the vark!" 

I am. Sir, 
Your very humble servant, 

R. B. 



1 '< Tweedside" is ihy Crawfurd ; " Ah, the poor shep- 
herd." &c., by Hamilton, of Langour; "Ah ! Chloris," 
!t.p., by Sir Charles Sea.^ey — Burns has attributed it to 
tfx Peter Halket, of Pitfe.Taa. 



ccxxxv. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[One of the daughters of Mrs. Dunlop was msiried to 
lIL. Henri, a French gentleman, who died m 1790, ».t Lo .- 
don Castle, in Ayrshire. The widow went with htn 
orphan son to France, and lived for awhile amid ihe 
dangers of the revolution.] 

Dumfries, 2'ith September, 1792, 
I HAVE this moment, my dear Madam, youra 
of the twenty-third. All your other kind re- 
proaches, your news, &c., are out of my head 
when I read and think on Mrs. H 's situ- 
ation. Good God ! a heart-woundea helpless 
young woman — in a strange, foieign land, and 
that land convulsed with every horror that can 
harrow the human feelings — sick — looking, long- 
ing for a comforter, but finding none — a mo- 
ther's feelings, too . — but it is too much : ha 
^ho wounded (he oiily can) may He heal ! 
• «•«»• 

I wish tLe faiJier great joy of his new ac- 
quisition to his ffimily. * ^ * * * I cannot say 
that I give Mm joy of his life as a farmer. 'Tis, 
as a farmer paying a dear, unconscionable rent, 
a cursed life I As to a laird farming his own 
property ; sowing his own corn in hope ; and 
reaping it, in spite of brittle weather, in glad- 
ness ; knowing that none can say unto Ijim, 
' what dost thou?' — fattening his herds ; shear- 
ing his flocks ; rejoicing at Christmas ; and be- 
getting sons and daughters, until he be tho 
venerated, gray-haired leader of a little tribe-— 
'tis a heavenly life ! but devil take the life of 
reaping the fruits that another must eat. 

Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as to 
seeing me when I make my Ayrshire visit. \ 

cannot leave Mrs. B , until her nine months' 

race is run, which may perhaps be in tnree.or 
four weeks. She, too, seems determined to 
make me the patriarchal leader of a band. 
However, if Heaven will be so obliging as to 
let me have them in the proportion of three boy» 
to one girl, I shall be so much the more pleased 
I hope, if I am spared witli them, to show a 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



449 



Bet of 1)oys that will do honour to my cares and 
name ; but I am not equal to the task of rearing 
girls. Besides, I am too poor; a girl should 
always have a fortune. Apropos, your little 
godson is thriving charmingly, but is a very 
devil. He, though two years younger, has com- 
pletely mastered his brother. Robert is indeed 
the mildest, gentlest creature I ever saw. He 
has a most surprising memory, and is quite the 
pride of his schoolmaster. 

You know how readily we get into prattle 
upon a subject dear to our heart: you can ex- 
cuse it God bless you and yours ! 

R. B. 



CCXXXVI. 
TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

[This letter has no date : it is supposed to have been 
written on the death of her daughter, Mrs. Henri, whose 
orphan son, deprived of the protection of all his relations, 
was preserved bv the affec*-ionate kindness of Mademoi- 
selle Susette, one of the family domestics, and after the 
Revolution obtained the estate of his blood and name.] 

I HAD been from home, and did not receive 
your letter until my return the other day. What 
shall I say to comfort you, my much-valued, 
much-aflaicted friend ! I can but grieve with 
you ; consolation I have none to offer, except 
that which religion holds out to the children of 
affliction — children of affliction! — how just the 
expression ! and like every other family they 
have matters among them whifch they hear, see, 
and feel in a serious, all-important manner, of 
which the world has not, nor cares to have, any 
idea. The world looks indifferently on, a akes 
the passing remark, and proceeds to the next 
novel occurrence. 

Alas, Madam ! who would wish for many 
rears ? What is it btit to drag existence until 
our joys gradually expire, and leave us in a night 
of misery : like the gloom which blots out the 
stars one by one, from the face of night, and 
leaves us, without a raj of comfort, in the howl- 
ing waste ! 

I am interrupted, and must leave off. You 
shall soon hear from me again. 

R B. 



» Bong CLXXVII 

■ It is something worse in the Edinburgh edition— 
29 



CCXXXVII. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Thomson had delivered judgment on some old Scottisi 
songs, but the poet murmured against George's decree.] 

My dear Sir, 
Let me tell you, that you arc too fastidious in 
your ideas of songs and ballads. I own thai 
your criticisms are just; the songs you specify 
in your list have, all but one, the faults you re- 
mark in them : but who shall mend the matter ? 
Who shall rise up and say, "G( to ! I will make 
a better?" For instance, on rea^ling over "Th? 
Lea-rig," I immediately set about trying my 
hand on it, and, after all, I could make nothing 
more of it than the following, which, Heaven 
knows, is poor enough. 

When o'er the hill the eastern star, &c.^ 
Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. 
Percy's ballad to the air, " Nannie, !" is just. 
It is, besides, perhaps, the most beautiful ballad 
in the English language. But let me remark to 
you, that in the sentiment and style of our Scot 
tish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, a some 
thing that one may call the Doric style and dia- 
lect of vocal music, to which a dash of our native 
tongue and manners is particularly, nay pecu- 
liarly, apposite. For this reason, and upon my 
honour, for this reason alone, I am of opinion 
(but, as I told you before, my opinion is yours, 
freely yours, to approve or reject, as you please) 
that my ballad of "Nannie, !" might perhaps 
do for one set of verses to the tune. Now don't 
let it enter into your head, that you are under 
any necessity of taking my verses. I have 
long ago made up my mind as to my own repu- 
tation in the business of authorship, and have 
nothing to be pleased or offended at, in your 
adoption or rejection of my verses. Though 
you should reject one half of what I give you, 
I shall be pleased with your adopting the otbe? 
half, and shall continue to serve you with the 
same assiduity. 

In the printed copy of my "Nannie, 0!" the 
name of the river is horribly prosaic.^ I will 
alter it ; 

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows. 

Girvan is the name of the river that suits the 
idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is the moa< 
agreeable modulation of syllables. 

" Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows " — Poems, f 



450 



GENERAL C 3IIIIESP0NDENCE 



I will soon give you a great many more re- 
»narks on this business ; but 1 have just now an 
opportunity of conveying you this scrawl, free 
of postage, an expense that it is ill able to pay : 
go, with my best compliments to honest Allan, 
Qude be wi' ye, &c. 

Ffidiy Night, 

Saturday Morning. 

As [ find I have still an hour to spare this 
m. >rmng before my conveyance goes away, I will 
give you "Nannie, !" at length. 

Your remarks on "Ewe-bughts, Marion," are 
just; still it has obtained a place among our 
more classical Scottish songs ; and what with 
many beauties in its composition, and more pre- 
judices in its favour, you will not find it easy 
to supplant it. 

In my very early years, when I was thinking 
of going to the West Indies, I took the follow- 
ing farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, 
and has nothing of the merits of "Ewe-bughts;" 
but it will fill up this page. You must -know 
that all my earlier love-songs were the breath- 
ings of ardent passion, and though it might 
have been easy in after-times to have given them 
a polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were, 
and who perhaps alone cared for them, would 
have defaced the legend of my heart, which was 
BO faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth 
gimplicity was, as they say of wines, their race. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary? &c.^ 

"Gala Water" and "Auld Rob Morris" I 
think, will most probably be the next subject 
of my musings. However, even on my verses, 
Bpeak out your criti'cisms with equal frankness. 
My wish is not to stand aloof, the uncomplying 
bigot of opiniairete, but cordially to join issue 
with you in the furtherance of the work. 

R. B. 



CCXXXVTIT. 
• TO MR. THOMSON. 

( I* e p<»«t loved to describe tlie influence wW "-h the 
*a«!Ki» of Mrss Lesley Baillie exercised over his imagi- 

November Sth, 1792. 
'If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the songs 
m your collection shall be poetry of the first 
merit, I am afraid you will find more difiicnlty 



* Simg OLXXTX. 



2Sor*gCLXXX, 
Song CLXXXI 



in the undertaking than you are aTvare of 
There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of qui 
airs, and a necessity of adapting syllables to the 
emphasis, or what I would call the feature-notea 
of the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him 
under almost insuperable difficulties. For in- 
stance, in the air, " My wife's a wanton wee 
thing," if a few lines smooth and pretty can be 
adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The foh 
lowing were made extempore to it ; and though 
on further study I might give you something 
more profound, yet it might not suit the light- 
horse gallop of the air so well as this random 
clink : — 

My wife's a winsome wee thing, &c.^ 

I have just been looking over the "Collier's 
bonny dochter ;" and if the following rhapsody, 
which I composed the other day, on a charming 
Ayrshire girl, Miss Lesley Baillie, as she passed 
through this place to England, will suit your 
taste better than the "Collier Lassie," fall on 
and welcome : — 

0, saw ye bonny Lesley ? &c,^ 

I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more 
pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will 
take, and deserve, a greater effort. However, 
they are all put into your hands, as clay into 
the hands of the potter, to make one vessel tc 
honour, and another to dishonour. Farewell, &c 

R. B. 



CCXXXIX. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The story of Mary Campbell's love is related m the 
notes on the songs which the poet wrote in her honour. 
Thomson says, in his ansvi^er, " I have heard the sad 
Btory of your Mary ; you ahvays seem inspired when yoo 
write of her."] 

14:th November, 1792. 
Mt dear Sik, 
I ACKEE with you that the song, " Katherine 
Ogie,' is very poor stuflT, and unworthy, xlto- 
gether unworthy of so beautiful an air. I tried 
to mend it ; but the awkward sound, Ogie, re- 
curring so often in the rhyme, spoils every at- 
tempt at introducing sentiment into the piece. 
The foregoing song* pleases myself; I think it 

4 Ye franks and braes and streomg around 
Tne castle o' Montgo./iery. 

SonffCLXXXIl 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



45j 



e in my happiest manner : /ou will see at first 
glance that it suits the air. The subject of the 
Bong is one of the most interesting passages of 
my youthfal days, and 1 own that I should be 
mujh flattered io see the verses set to an air 
»yhich would cn^u^'e celebrity. Perhaps, after 
all, 'tis the still glowing prejudice of my heart 
iiat th'ows 0, borrowed lustre over the merits 
jf tie composition. 

f have partly taken your idea of " Auld Kob 
Morris." 1 have adopted the two first verses, 
and am going on with the song on a new plan, 
which promises pretty well. I take up one or 
another, just as the bee of the moment buzzes 
In my bonnet-lug ; and do you, sans ceremonie, 
make what use you choose of the productions. 
Adieu, &c. 

R. B. 



TO MK THOMSON. 

[The poet aoprcv^d of several emendations proposed 
by Thomson, whose Avish was to make the words flow 
more readily with the music : he refused, however, to 
adopt otherii, -^rliere he thought too much of the sense was 
»acr,.iiced.J 

Dumfries, 1st December, 1792. 
Tour alterations of my "Nannie, 0!" are 
perfectly right. So are those of " My wife's a 
winsome wee thing." Your alteration of the 
second stanza is a positive improvement. Now, 
my dear Sir, with the freedom which character- 
izes our correspondence, I must not, cannot alter 
"Bonnie Lesley." You ate right; the word 
" Alexander" makes the line a little uncouth, 
but I think the thought is pretty. Of Alexan- 
der, beyond all other heroes, it may be aaid, in 
the sublime language of Scripture, that '* he 
went forth conquering and to conquer." 

For nature made her what she is, 
An"! never made anither. (Such a person as 
she is.) 

This is, in my opinion, more poetical than 
'•Ne'er made sic anither." However, it is im- 
material: make it either way. "Caledonie," 
I agree with you, is not so good a word as could 
be wished, though it is sanctioned in three or 
four instances by Allan Ramsay ; but I cannot 
help it. In short, that species of stanza is the 
Ticpt difficult that I have ever tried. 

R. B. 



COX LI. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Duncan Gray, which this letter containnd, becartte t 
favourite as soon as it was published, and the same vase* 
be said of Auid Rob Morris ] 

Ath December, 1792. 
The foregoing ['*Auld Rob Morris," aad 
"Duncan Gray,"'] I submit, my dear Sir, to 
your better judgment. Acquit them or con- 
demn them, as seemeth good in your sight. 
"Duncan Gray" is that kind of light-horse gal- 
lop of an air, which precludes sentiment. The 
ludicrous is its ruling feature. 

R. B 



CCXLII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[Burns often discourses with Mrs. Dunlop on poetry 
and poets : the dramas of Thomson, to which he alludes, 
are stiff, cold compositions] 

Dumfries, 6th December, 1792. 

I SHALL be in Ayrshire, I think, next week; 
and, if at all possible, I shall certainly, my 
much-esteemed friend, have the pleasure of 
visiting at Dunlop-house. 

Alas, Madam ! how seldom do we meet in this 
world, that we have reason to congratulate our- 
selves on accessions of happiness ! I have not 
passed half the ordinary term of an old man's 
life, and yet I scarcely look over the obituary 
of a newspaper, that I do not see some names 
that I have known, and which I, and other 
acquaintances, little thought to meet with there 
so soon. Every other instance of the mortality 
of our kind, makes us cast an anxious look into 
the dreadful abyss of uncertainty, and shudder 
with apprehension for our own fate. But of 
how different an importance are the lives of 
different individuals ? Nay, of what importanct 
is one period of the same life, more than ano- 
ther ? A few years ago, I could have laid down 
in the dust, " careless of the voice of the m.orn- 
ing ;" and now not a few, and these most help- 
less individuals, would, on losing me and my 
exertions, lose both their " staff and shield." By 
the way, these helpless ones have lately go! 

an addition ; Mrs. B having given me a 

fine girl since I wrote you. There is a charm- 

1 Songs CLXXXIII anc CLXXyrv 



452 



GENERAL OORllESPONDENCE 



mg passage in Thomson's "Edward and Eleo- 

nora:" 

«' The valiant in himself, what can he suffer ? 
Or what need he regard his single woes?" &c. 

As I am got in the wS-y of quotations, I shall 
give you another from the same piece, pecu- 
liarly, alas ! too peculiarly apposite, my dear 
Ifadam, to joxxr pres3nt frame of mind : 

*' Who so unworthy but may proudly deck him 
With his fair-weathe: virtue, that exults 
Giad o'er the summer main! the tempest comes, 
The rough winds rago aloud ; wnen from the helm, 
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies 
Lamenting — Heavens ! if privileged from trial, 
How cheap a thing ware virtue ?" 

I do not remember to have heard you men- 
tion Thomson's dramas. I pick up favourite 
quotations, and store them in my mind as ready 
armour, offensive or defensive, amid the struggle 
of this turbulent existence. Of these is one, a 
very favourite one, from his "Alfred:" 

*' Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 
And offices of life ; to life itself. 
With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose." 

Probably I have quoted some of these to you 
formerly, as indeed when I write from the heart, 
I am apt to be guilty of such repetitions. The 
compass of the heart, in the musical style of 
expression, is much more bounded than that of 
.he imagination ; so the notes of the former are 
extremely apt to run into one another ; but in 
return for the paucity of its compass, its few 
notes are much more sweet. I must still give 
you another quotation, which I am almost sure 
I have given you before, but I cannot resist the 
temptation. The subject is religion — speaking 
of its importance to mankind, the author says, 
"'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright." 

I see you are in for double postage, so I shall 
e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We, in this 
country here, have many alarms of the reform- 
ing, or rather the republican spirit, of your 
pari of the kingdom. Indeed we are a good 
deal in commotion ourselves. For me, I am a 
placeman, you know; a very humble one in- 
deed. Heaven knows, but still so much as to gag 
mo. "What my private sentiments are, you will 
find out :?yithout an interpreter. 

* * -5^ ^ * * 

I have taken up the subject, and the other 
iaj, for a pretty actress's benefit night, I wrote 
»ii address, which I will give on the other page, 
called " The rights of woman :" 

« While Europe's eye is fixed on mighty things." 



I shall have the honour of receiving jDiar enH 
cisms in person at Dunlop. R. B^ 



CCXLIII. 



TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ., 

FINTBAY. 

[Graham stood by the bard m the hour of peril recorded 
in this letter : and the Board of Excise had the generoBJt:^ 
to permit him to eat its " bitter bread" for the rsma.'adci 
of his«life.] 

December, 1792. 
Sir, 

I HAVE been surprised, confounded, and dis- 
tracted by Mr. Mitchell, the collector, tilling 
me that he has received an order from yout 
Beard to inquire into my political conduct, and 
blaming me as a person disaffected to govern- 
ment. 

Sir, you are a husband — and a father.-^ You 
know what you would feel, to see the much- 
loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless, 
prattling little ones, turned adrift into the world, 
degraded and disgraced from a situsation in which 
they had been respectable and respected, and 
left almost without the necessary support of a 
miserable existence. Alas, Sir ! must I think 
that such, soon, will be my lot! and frora the 
d-mned, dark insinuations of hellish, ground- 
less envy too ! I believe, Sir, I may aver it, and 
in the sight of Omniscience, that I would no<, 
tell a deliberate falsehood, no, not though even 
worse horrors, if worse can be, than those I 
have mentioned, hung over my head ; and I say, 
that the allegation, whatever villain has made 
it, is a lie ! To the Britsh constitution on Revo- 
lution principles, next after my God, I am most 
devoutly attached ; you, Sir, have been much 
and generously my friend. — Heaven knows hov? 
warmly I have felt the obligation, and how 
gratefully I have thanked you. — Fortune, Sir, 
has made you powerful, and me impotent ; haa 
given you patronage, and me dependence. — 1 
would not for my single self, call on your huma- 
nity ; were such my insular, unconnected situ- 
ation, I would despise the tear that now swells 
in my eye — I could brave misfortune, I could 
face ruin ; for at the worst, " Death's thousand 
doors stand open ;" but, good God ! the tendei 
concerns that I have mentioned, the claims and 
ties that I see at this moment, and feel around 
me, how they unnerve courage, and wither n»so 



fution ! To your patronage, as a man of some 
genius, you have allowed me a claim ; and your 
esteem, as aK. honest man, I know is my due : 
to these. Sir, permit me to appeal ; by these 
may I adjure you to save me from that misery 
which threatens to overwhelm me, and which, 
with my latest breath I will say it, I have not 
deserved. R. B. 



CCXLIV. 

TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

[Bums was ordered, he says, to mind his duties in the 
Excise, and to hold his tongue about politics — the latter 
part of the injunction \vas hard to obey, for at that time 
politics were in every mouth.] 

Duvifries, 2,1st December, 1792. 
Dear Madam, 

A HURRY of business, thrown in heaps by my 
i.Dsence, has until now prevented my returning 
my grateful acknowledgments to the good family 
of Dunl:^ and you in particular, for that 
hospitable kindness which rendered the four 
days I spent under that genial roof, four of the 
pleasantest I ever enjoyed. — Alas, my dearest 
friend ! how few and ieeting are those things 
we call pleasures ! on my road so Ayrshire, I 
epent a night with a friend whom I much 
valued ; a man whose days promised to be 
many ; and on Saturday last we laid him in the 
dust! 

Jan. 2, 1793. 

I HAVE just received yours of the 30th, and 
feel much for your situation. However, I heartily 
rejoice in your prospect of recovery from that 
vile jaundice. As to myself, I am better, though 
not quite free of my complaint. — You must not 
think, as you seem to insinuate, that in my 
way of life I want exercise. Of that I have 
<<iough ; but occasional hard drinking is the 
d^vil to me. Against this 1 have again and 
again bent my resolution, and have greatly suc- 
ceeded. Taverns I have totally abandoned : it 
is the private parties in the family way, among 
the hard-drinking gentlemen of -this country, 
that do me the mischief — but even this I have 
more than half given over. 

Mr. Corbet can be of little service to me at 
present ; at least I should be shy of applying. 
I cannot possibly be settled as a supervisor, for 
leveral years. I must wait the rotation of the 
'ist, aiil there are twenty names before mine. 



I might indeed get a job of ofiSciating, where a 
settled supervisor was ill, or aged; but that 
hauls me from my family, as I could not remove 
them on such an uncertainty. Besides, some 
envious, malicious devil, has raised a little demm 
on my political principles, and 1 wish to let that 
matter settle before I oifer myself too much ia 
the eye of my supervisors. I have set, hence- 
forth, a seal on my lips, as to these unlucky poli 
ties; but to you I must breathe my sentiments. Ia 
this, as in everything else, I shall show the un- 
disguised emotions of my soul. War I depre- 
cate : misery and ruin to thousands are in the 
blast that announces the destructive demon. 

R. B 



CXLV. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The songs to which the poet alludes v/ere " Poortit* 
Cauld," and «' Galla Water."] 

Jan. 1793. 

Many returns of the season to you, my dear 
Sir. How comes on your publication ? — will 
these two foregoing [Songs clxxxv. and 
CLXxxvi.] be of any service to you? I should 
like to know what songs you print to each tune, 
besides the verses to which it is set. In short, I 
would wish to give you my opinion on all the 
poetry you publish. You know it is my trade, 
and a man in the way of his trade may suggest 
useful hints that escape men of much superior 
parts and endowments in other things. 

If you meet with my dear and much-valued 
Cunningham, greet him, in my name, with the 
compliments of the season. 

Yours, &c., 

R. B. 



COXLVI. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Thoirison explained more fully than at firft fne \i'v% of 
his publication, and stnted that Dr. Beattie had pr(.rrji8«fl 
an essay on Scottish music, by way of an iit.roduc'ijont;; 
the work.] 

2Uh Jar.nart/, 1793. 
I APPROVE greatly, my dear Sir, of your plans 
Dr. Beattie's essay wiP, of itself, be a treasure. 
On my part I mean to draw up an appendix to 
the Doctor's essay, containing my stock of anec- 
dotes, &c., of our Scots songs. All the late M" 



Tytler's anecdotes I have by me, taken down in 
the course of my acquaintance with him, from 
his own mouth. I am such an enthusiast, that 
in the course of my several peregrinations 
through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage to the 
individual spot from which every song took its 
rise, "Lochaber" and the " Braes of Ballenden" 
excepted. S<. far as the locality, either from 
the title of the air, or the tenor of the song, 
eould be ascertained, I have paid my devotions 
at the particular shrine of every Scots muse. 

1 do not doubt but you might make a very 
valuable c )llection of j acobite songs ; but would 
it give no offence ? In the meantime, do not 
you think that some of them, particularly <' The 
bow's tail to Geordie," as an air, with other 
words, 'might be well worth a place in your col- 
ection of lively songs ? 

If it were possible to procure songs of merit, it 
would be proper to nave one set of Scots woras 
to every air, and that the set of words to which 
the notes ought to be set. There is a nav'iete, 
a pastoral simplicity, in a slight intermixture 
of Scots words and phraseology, which is more 
in unison (at least to my taste, and, I will add, 
to every genuine Caledonian taste) with the 
simple pathos, or rustic sprightliness of our 
uative masic, than any English verses what- 
ever. 

The very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisi- 
tion to your work. His " Gregory" is beautiful. 
I have tried to give you a set of stanzas in Scots, 
on the same subject, which are at your service. 
Not that I intend to enter the lists with Peter 
— that would be presumption indeed. My song, 
though much inferior in poetic merit, has, I 
ihink, more of the ballad simplicity in it. 
[HfiTS follows '< Lord Gregory." Song CLXXXVII. 

My most respectful compliments to the ho- 
nourable gentleman who favoured me with a 
postscript in your last. He shall hear from me 
tTid receive his MSS. soon. 

Yours, 

E. B. 



CCXLVII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

[Tin seal, with the coat-of-arms which the poet in- 
.ented, is still in Ihe family, and regarded as a relique.] 

M March, 1793. 
Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious s'aeet, 
I Have not had time to write you further. When 



I say that I had not time, that as usual meaii% 
that the three demons, indolence, business, an<i 
ennui, have so completely shared my hourl 
among them, as not to leave me a five minutes' 
fragment to take up a pen in. 

Thank heaven, I feel my spirits buoying up- 
wards with the renovating year. Now I shalj 
in good earnest take up Thomson's songs, i 
dare say he thinks I have used him unkindly, 
and I must own with too much appearance of 
truth. Apropos, do you know the much admired 
old Highland air called "The Sutor's Dochter?" 
It is a first-rate favourite of mine, and I have 
written what I reckon one of my best scags to 
it. I will send it to you as it was sung with 
great applause in some fashionable circles by 
Major Roberston, of Lude, who was here with 
his corps. 

■5f * -x •J' •??• •* 

There is one commission that i must trouble 
you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a pre- 
sent from a departed friend which vexes me 
much. 

I have gotten one of your Highland pebbles, 
which I fancy would make a very decent one ; 
and I want to cut my armorial bearing on it ; 
will you be so obliging as inquire what will be 
the expense of such a business ? I do not know 
that my name is matriculated, as the heralds 
call it,, at all ; but I have invented arms for my- 
self, so you know I shall be chief of the name,* 
and, by courtesy of Scotland, will likewise be 
entitled to supporters. These, however, I da 
not intend having on my seal. I am a bit of a 
herald, and shall give you, secundum artem, my 
arms. On a field, azure, a holly-bush, seeded, 
proper, in base; a shepherd's pipe and crook, 
saltier- wise, also proper in chief. On a wreath 
of the colours, a wood-lark perching on a sprig of 
bay-tree, proper, for crest. Two mottos ; round 
the top of the crest. Wood-notes wild: at the bot- 
tom of the shield, in the usual place. Better a 
wee bush than nae hield. By the shepherd's pipe 
and crook I do not mean the nonsense of paint- 
ers of Arcadia, but a stock and horn, and a chiby 
such as you see at the head of Allan Ramsay, 
in Allan's quarto edition of the Gentle Shepherd 
By the bye, do you know Allan ? He must be a 
man of very great genius — Why is he not more 
known? — Has he no patrons ? or do "Po^'erty'3 
cold wind and crushing rain beat keen and 
heavy" on him? I once, and but cnce, got 9 
glance of that noble edition of the noblest pas- 
toral in the world ; and dear as it was, I me&a 



OF EOBEET BURNS. 



45? 



dear as to my pocket, I would have bought it ; 
but I was told that it was printed and engraved 
for subscribers only. He is the only artist who 
has hit genuine pastoral costume. What, my 
Jea Cunningham, is there in riches, that they 
nar/ow and harden the heart so ? I think, that 
irere I as rich as the sun, I should be as gene- 
rous as the day ; but as I have no reason to 
.magxne my soul a nobler one than any other 
dean's, 1 must conclude that wealth imparts a 
pird-hme quality to the possessor, at which the 
aian, in his native poverty, would have revolted. 
What has led me to this, is the idea of such 
merit as Mr. Allan possesses, and such riches 
as 8 nabob or government contractor possesses, 
and why they do not form a mutual league. 
Let wealth shelter and cherish unprotected 
merit, and the gratitude and celebrity of that 
merit, will richly repay it- 



CCXLVIII. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

tBurns in these careless words makes lis acquainted 
with one of his sweetest songs.] 

20iA March, 1793. 
My dear Sir, 

The song prefixed ["Mary Morison'"] is one 
of my juvenile works. I leave it in your hands. 
I do not think it very remarkable, either for its 
merits or demerits. It is impossible (at least I 
feel it so in my stinted powers) to be always 
original, entertaining, and witty. 

What is become of the list, &c., of your 
Bongs ? I shall be out of all temper with you, 
by and bye. I have always looked on myself as 
the prince of indolent correspondents, and valued 
myself accordingly ; and I will not, cannot, 
bear rivalship from you, nor anybody else. 

R. B. 

CCXLIX. 
TO MR. THOMSON. 

[For f.:e " Wandering "Willie" of this communication 
fborasou offered se/eral corrections.] 

March, 1793. 
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 

Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame ; 
Oome to my bosom, my ae only dearie, [same. 

And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the 

' Son« CLXXXVIII. 



Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our part 
ing; 
It was na the blast brought the tear in mj 
e'e; 
Now welcome the simmer, and welcome m^ 
Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers 1 
Oh how your wild horrors a lover alarms ! 

Awaken, ye breezes ! blow gently, ye billows i 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to a)J 
arms. 

But if he's forgotten his faithfulest Nannie, 

still flow between us, thou wide, roarinj 

main ; 
May I never see it, may I never trow it. 

But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain ' 

1 leave ii to you, my dear Sir, to determine 
whether the above, or the old "Thro' the lang 
muir I have followed my Willie," be the best. 

R. B. 



CCL. 
TO MISS BENSON. 

[Miss Benson, when this letter was written, was ''b it 
visit to Arbigland, the beautiful seat of Captain C R-.k; 
she is now Mrs. Basil Montagu.] 

Dumfries, 2lst March, 17v^3 
Madam, 

Among many things for which I envy thooi 
hale, long-lived old fellows before the flood, ig 
this in particular, that when they met with any- 
body after their own heart, they had a charm- 
ing long prospect of many, many happy meet- 
ings with them in after-life. 

Now in this short, stormy, winter day of our 
fleeting existence, when you now and then in 
the Chapter of Accidents, meet an individmil 
whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, thei3 
are all the probabilities against you, that you 
shall never meet with that valued character 
more. On the other hand, brief as this miser- 
able being is, it is none of the least of the raise 
ries belonging to it, that if there is any mis- 
creant whom you hate, or creature whom yoti 
despise, the ill-run of the chances shall be sfl 
against you, that in the overtakings, turnings, 
and jostlings of life, pop, at some unlucky cor- 
ner, eternally comes the wretch upon you, an4 



fi)6 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



will not allow your indignation or contempt a 
moment's repose. As I am a sturdy believer in 
the powers of darkness, I take these to be the 
doings of that old author of mischief, the devil. 
It is well-known that he has some kind of short- 
hand way of taking down our thoughts, and I 
Ui&ke no doubt he is perfectly acquainted with 
mj sentiments respecting Miss Benson : how 
arnch I admired her abilities and valued her 
iFortir , and how very fortunate I thought myself 
lU her ucquaintance. For this last reason, my 
dear Madam, I must entertain no hopes of the 
very great pleasure of meeting with you again. 
Miss Hamilton tells me that she is sending a 
packet to you, and I beg leave to send you the 
enclosed sonnet, though, to tell you the real 
Iruth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may 
have the opportunity of declaring with how 
much respectful esteem I have the honour to 
be, &c. R. B. 



CCLI. 
TO PATRICK MILLER, ESQ., 

OF DALS WINTON. 

I; The time to which Burns alludes was the period of 

his occupation of Ellisland.] 



Sir, 



Dumfries, April, 1793. 



My poems having just come out in another 
edition, will you do me the honour to accept of 
a copy ? A mark of my gratitude to you, as a 
gentleman to whose goodness I have been much 
indebted ; of my respect for you, as a patriot 
who, in a venal, sliding age, stands forth the 
champion of the liberties of my country ; and 
of my veneration for you, as a man, whose be- 
nevolence of heart does honour to human na- 
ture. 

There was a time. Sir, when I was your de- 
pendent: this language then would have been 
like the vile incense of flattery — I could not have 
asvfd it. Now that connexion is at an end, do 
ta.B the honour to accept of this honest tribute of 
respect from, Sir, 

Your much indebted humble servant, 

R. B. 



• Burn3 here calls himself the "Voice of Coila," in 
tmitalioi:of Ossian, who denominates himself the " Voice 
*f Cona."— Ct'RRiK. 



CC/7T. 

TO MR. T no MS OK. 

[This review of our S o'-tisli lyrics is we'l woitt tue 
attention of all who ■« .iXa songs, read songs, or eia% 
songs.] 

7th April, 179S. 

Thank you, my /Sear Sir, for your packet 
You cannot imagine how much this business of 
composing for your publication has added U 
my enjoyments. "What with my early attacJi- 
ment to ballads, your book, &c., ballad-making 
is now as completely my hobby-horse as evgi 
fortification was Uncle Toby's ; so I'll e'en cant ei 
it away till I come to the limit of my race — GoU 
grant that I may take the right side of the win- 
ning post ! — and then cheerfully looking back 
on the honest folks with whom I have been 
happy, I shall say or bing, " Sae merry as we 
a' hae been!" and, rf»ibing my last looks to the 
whole human race, the last words of the voice 
of "Coila" ^ shall De, "Good night, and joy be 
wi' you a' !" So much for my last words: now 
for a few present leaiarks, as they have occurred 
at random, on looking over your list. 

The first lints of " The last time I came 
o'er the moor," and several other lines in it, 
are beautiful ; but, in my opinion — pardon me, 
revered shade of Ramsay! — the song is un- 
worthy of the divine air. I shall try to make 
or mend. 

"For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove,"^ is a 
charming song; but "Logan burn and Logan 
braes" is sweetly susceptible of rural imagery ; 
I'll try that likewise, and, if I succeed, the 
other song may class among the English ones, 
I remember the two 1 ast lines of a verse in 
some of the old songs of " Logan Water" (for I 
know a good many different ones) which I think 
pretty : — 

" Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. "3 

" My Patie is a lover gay," is unequal "His 
mind is never muddy," is a muddy expression 
indeed. 

" Then I'll resign and marry Pate, 
And syne my cockernony — " | 

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay or youi 
book. My song, " Rigs of barley," to the same 
tune, does not altogether please me ; but if ' 
can mend it, aijd thrash a few loose sentiments 

2 By Thomson, not the musician, but the noet. 

3 This song is not old ; its author, the late John Maync 
long outlived Burns. 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



457 



out of it, T will submit it to your consideration. 
" Tlie lass ^' Patie's mill'' is one of Ramsay's 
best songs ; but there is one loose sentiment in 
It, which ray much-valued fiiond Mr. Erskine 
will tH.ke mto his critical considoiation. In Sir 
John Sinclair's statistical volunittj, are two 
claims— one, I think from Aberdeeu.shire, and 
Uie other from Ayrshire — for the honour of this 
song. The following anecdote, whicii I had 
from the present Sir William Cunninjcham of 
Robertland, who had it of the late JoLd, Earl 
of Loudon, I can, on such authorities, bolieve : 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon-castle 
R-ith the then Earl, father to Earl John ; and 
one forenoon, riding or walking, out together, 
his lordship and Allan passed a sweet romantic 
spot on Irvine water, still called " Patie's mill," 
where a bonnie lass was "tedding hay, bare- 
headed on the green." My lord observed to 
Allan, that it would be a fine theme for a song. 
Ramsay took the hint, and, lingering behind, 
ne composed the first sketch of it, which he pro- 
duced at dinner. 

" One day I heard Mary say,"^ is a fine song; 
but, for consistency's sake, alter the name 
"Adonis." Were there ever such banns pub- 
lished, as a purpose of marriage between Adonis 
and Mary! I agfree with you that my song, 
" There's nought but care on every hand," is 
much superior to " Poortith cauld." The ori- 
ginal song, " The mill, mill, !"^ though ex- 
cellent, is, on account of delicacy, inadmissible; 
still I like the title, and think a Scottish song 
would suit the notes best ; and let your chosen 
Bong, which is very pretty, follow as an English 
set. " The Banks of the Dee" is, you know, 
literally " Langolee," to slow time. The song 
is well enough, but has some false imagery in 
it: for instance, 
*' And sweetly the nightingale sang from the tree." 

In the f rst place, the nightingale sings in a 
lo^ bush, hut uever from a tree ; and in the 
K^cond place, there never was a nightingale 
leeu or heard on the banks of the Dee, or on 
tie banks of any other river in Scotland. Exotic 
rural imagery is always comparatively flat.^ If 
I could hit on another stanza, equal to " The 
small birds rejoice," &c., I do myself honestly 

1 By Criwfurci. 2 By Ramsiiy. 

3 The author, John Tait, a writer to the Signet an(? 
,ome time Judge of the polioe-court in Edinburgh, 
sJ»ented to this, and altered the line to, 

'•' And sweetly the wood-pigeon cooed from the tree " 



avow, that I think it a superior song.'^ " Jchn 
Anderson, my jo" — the song to this tune iu 
Johnson's Museum, is my composition, and I 
think it not my worst :^ if it suit you, take it, 
and welcome. Your collection of sentimental 
and pathetic songs, is, in my opinion, very com- 
plete ; but not so your comic ones. Where are 
" Tullochgorum," "Lumps o' puddin," "Tibbie 
Fowler," and several others, which, in my hum- 
ble judgment, are well worthy of preservation ? 
There is also one sentimental song of mine in 
the Museum, which never was known out of 
the immediate neighbourhood, until I got it 
taken down from a country girl's singing. It 
is called " Craigieburn wood," and, in the 
opinion of Mr. Clarke, is one of the sweetest 
Scottish songs. He is quite an enthusiast about 
it; and I would take his taste in Scottish musio 
against the taste of most connoisseurs. 

You are quite right in inserting the last five 
in your list, though they are certainly Irish. 
"Shepherds, I have lost my love !" is to me a 
heavenly air — what would you think of a set of 
Scottish verses to it ? I have made one to it a 
good while ago, which I think * * *, but in its 
original state it is not quite a lady's song. I 
enclose an altered, not amended copy for you,^ 
if you choose to set the tune to it, and let the 
Irish verses follow. 

Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but hia 
" Lone vale" ^ is divine. 

Yours, &c. 

R. B. 

Let me know just how you like these random 
hints. 



CCLIII. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The letter to which this is in part an answer, Currie 
says, contains many observations on Scottish songs, and 
on the manner of adapting the words to ihe mreic, which 
at Mr. Thomson's desire are suppressed.] 

April, 1793. 
I HAVE yours, my dear Sir, this moment. I 
shall answer it and your former letter, in m^ 
desultory way of saying whatever comes upper- 
most. 



< Song CXXXIX. 6 •^ong LXXX. 6 Song CLX XVII 

7 " How sweet this lone vale, «ind how soothing to feeling 

Yon nightingale's notes whinh ih melody meet." 

The song has found its' way into several coMe^tiona 



458 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



The business of many of our tunes wanting, 
at the beginning, what fiddlers call a starting- 
note, is often a rub to us poor rhymers. 

" There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander through the blooming heather,'' 

^oa. may alter to 

" Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
Ye wander," &c. 

My song, " Here awa, there awa," as amended 
by Mr. Erskine, I entirely approve of, and re- 
turn you. 

Give me leave to criticise your taste in the 
only thing in which it is, in my opinion, repre- 
hensible. You know I ought to know something 
of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, and 
■point, you are a complete judge ; but there is 
.« quality wore Bece«sary than either in a fong, 
and whicli is tne very essence of a baliad — x 
mean simplicity : now, if I mistake not, this last 
feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to the 
foregoing. 

Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been 
always equally happy in his pieces ; still I can- 
rut approve of taking such liberties with an 
author as Mr. Walker proposes doing with " The 
jast time I came o'er the moor." Let a poet, 
if he choose, take up the idea of another, and 
work it into a piece of his own ; but to mangle 
the works of the poor bard, whose tuneful 
tongue is now mute for ever, in the dark and nar- 
row house — by Heaven, 'twould be sacrilege ! I 
grant that Mr. W.'s version is an improvement ; 
but I know Mr. W. well, and esteem him much ; 
let him mend the song, as the Highlander mend- 
ed his gun — he gave it a new stock, a new lock, 
and a new barrel. 

I do not, by this, object to leaving out impro- 
per stanzas, where that can be done without 
spoiling the whole. One stanza in <'The lass 
o' Patie's mill" must be left out : the song will 
h^ nothing worse for it. I am not sure if we 
san take the same liberty with " Corn rigs are 
bonnie." Perhaps it might want the last stanza, 
and be the better for it. " Cauld kail in Aber- 
deen," you must leave with me yet awhile. I 
have vowed to have a song to that air, on the lady 
whom I attempted to celebrate in the verses, 
"Poortith cauld and restless love." At any 
pate, my other song, "Green grow ths rashes," 

1 Songs CXCII. and CXCIII 



will never suit. That song is current in Scot 
land under the old title, and to the merry old 
tune of that name, which, of course, would mai 
the progress of your song to celebrity. Youl 
book will be the standard of Scots songs for th« 
future : let this idea ever keep your judgment 
on the alarm. 

I send a song on a celebrated toast in tbia 
country, to suit " Bonnie Dundee." I send yoB 
also a ballad to the "Mill, mill, !"i 

"The last time I came o'er the moor," 1 
would fain attempt to make a Scots song for, 
and let Ramsay's be the English set. You ^hall 
hear from me soon. When you go to London 
on this business, can you come by Dumfries ? I 
have still several MS. Scots airs by me, which 
I have picked up, mostly from the singing of 
country lasses. They please me vastly ; but 
your learned lugs would perhaps be displeased 
wltli thu very feata/e loi- which 1 like oLem, 1 
call them simple ; you would pronounce them 
silly. Do you know a fine air called "Jackie 
Hume's Lament ?" I have a song of consider- 
able merit to that air. I'll enclose you both 
the song and tune, as I had them ready to send 
to Johnson's Museum.^ I send you likewise, to 
me, a beautiful little air, which I had taken 
down from viva voce.^ 

Adieu. 

R. B. 



CCLIV. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Thomson, it would appear by his answer to this letl8i, 
was at issue with Burns on the subject-matter of simpli- 
city : the former seems to have desired a sort of diplo- 
matic and varnished style : the latter felt that eleganc* 
and simplicity were " sisteis twin."] 

Ajyril, 1733. 
Mt dear Sir, 
I HAD scarcely put my last letter into the post- 
office, when I took up the subject of " The lasi 
time I came o'er the moor," and ere I slep* 
drew the outlines of the foregoing.^ How I have 
succeeded, I leave on this, as on every other oc 
casion, to you to decide. I own my vanity is 
flattered, when you give my songs a place in 
your elegant and superb work ; but to be of 
service to the work is my first wish. As I ha^« 

2 Song CXCIV. 3 Song CXCVIII. 

4 Song CCXXXIV. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



l^** 



often told you, I do not in a single instance •wish 
j'ou, out of compliment to me, to insert any- 
thing of mine. One hint let me give you — 
whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not alter one 
iota of the original Scottish airs, I mean in the 
Bong department, but let our national music 
preserve its native features. They are, I own, 
frequently vrild and irreducible to the more 
aaodcri. rales ; but on that very eccentricity, 
narhajs, depends a great part of their effect. 

R. B. 



CCLV. 
rO JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE, ESQ., 

OF MAR. 

[This remarkable lettei has been of late the subject of 
eoixic con vex-, ; M • im • ;er, vhoh:jpen*^ ;hei to 
be in the Excise, is v^ehe' flent in defence of the " honoura- 
ble bunrd," and is certan that Burns has misrepresented 
the conduct of his very generous masters. In answer to 
shis it has been urged fiat the word of the poet has in no 
ather thing been questioned : that in the last moments of 
his life, he solemnly wrote this letter into his memoran- 
dum-book, and that t'le reproof of Mr. Corbet, is given by 
bim either as a v'uo^f.tion from a paper or an exact recol- 
lection of the ■^v'^rJs used: the expressions, ^^not to 
think^^ and be ' iiunt and obedienV^ are underlined.] 



Sir, 



Dumfries, IZth April, 1793. 



Degemevate as human nature is said to be, 
and in-many instances, worthless and unprinci- 
pled it is, still there are bright examples to the 
contrary ; examples that even in the eyes of su- 
perior beings, must shed a lustre on the-name 
of man. 

Such an example have I now before me, when 
you, Sir, came forward to patronize and befriend 
a distant, obscure stranger, merely because po- 
verty had made him helpless, and his British 
hardihood of mind had provoked the arbitrary 
wantonness of power. My much esteemed 
friend; Mr. Riddel of Glenriddel, has just read 
me a paragraph of a letter he had from you. 
Accent, Sir, of the silent throb of gratitude ; 
for words would but mock the emotions of my 
■oul. 

You havc been misinformed as to my final 
dismission from the Excise ; I am still in the 
•ervice. — Indeed, but for the exertions of a gen- 
tleman who must be known to you, Mr. Graham 
ef Fintray, a gentleman who has ever been my 
warm and generous friend, I had, without so 
much as a hearing, or the slightest previous 



intimation, been turned adrift, with my helplesi 
family, to all the horrors of want. Had I had 
any other resource, probably I might have saved 
them the trouble of a dismission ; but the littl€ 
money I gained by my publication, is almost 
every guinea embarked, to save from ruin aa 
only brother, who, though one of the worthiest^ 
is by no means one of the most fortunate of 
men. 

In my defence to their accusations, I said, it&i 
whatever might be my sentiments of republics, 
ancient or modern, as to Britain, I abjured the 
idea I — That a constitution, which, in its ori- 
ginal principles, experience had proved to be 
every way fitted for our happiness in society, it 
would be insanity to sacrifice to an untried vi- 
sionary theory: — that, in consideration of my 
being situated in a department, however humble, 
iipmediatelv in tbe feandr <^f p^r^^-^ 'u p<^,wer 
1 had forborne taking any active part, either 
personally, or as an author, in the present busi- 
ness of Reform. But, that, where I must de- 
clare my sentiments, I would say there existed 
a system of corruption between the executive 
power and the representative part of the legis- 
lature, which boded no good to our glorious con- 
stitution ; and which every patriotic Briton 
must wish to see amended. — Some such senti- 
ments as these, I stated in a letter to my gene- 
rous patron, Mr. Graham, which he laid before 
the Board at large ; where, it seems, my last 
remark gave great offence ; and one of our 
supervisors-general, a Mr. Corbet, was in- 
structed to inquire on the spot, and to docu- 
ment me — "that my business was to act, not to 
think; and that whatever might be men or mea- 
sures, it was for me to be silent and obedient.'^ 

Mr. Corbet was likewise my steady friend j 
so between Mr. Graham and him, I have been 
partly forgiven ; only I understand that all 
hopes of my getting officially forward, are 1 
blasted. ] 

Now, Sir, to the business in which I wcuiJ 
more immediately interest you. The partiality 
of my countrymen has brought me forward aa 
a man of genius, anJ has given me a character 
to support. In the Poet I have av wed manij 
and independent sentiments, which I trust will 
be found in the man. Reasons of no less weight 
than the support of a wife and family, have 
pointed out as the eligible, and, situated as I 
was, the only eligible line of life for me, my 
present occupation. Still my honest fame is in| 



460 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



dearest concern ; and a thousand times have I 
trembled at the idea of those degrading epithets 
that malice or misrepresentation may af&x to my 
name. I have often, in blasting anticipation, 
listened to some future hackney scribbler, with 
the heavy malice of savage stupidity, exulting 
in his hireling paragraphs — "Burns, notwith- 
standing the fanfaronade of independence to be 
found in his works, and after having been held 
forth to public view and to public estimation as 
a man of some genius, yet quite desitute of re- 
sources within himself to support his borrowed 
dignity, he dwindled into a paltry exciseman, 
and slunk out the rest of his insignificant ex- 
istence in the meanest of pursuits, and among 
the vilest of mankind." 

In your illustrious hands, Sir, pertiait me to 
lodge my disavowal ond defiance of these slan- 
derous falsehoods. Burns was a poor man from 
birth, and an exciseman by necessity: but I 
will say it ! the sterling of his honest worth, no 
poverty could debase, and his independent 
British mind, oppression might bend, but could 
not subdue. Have not I, to me, a more precious 
stake in my country's welfare than the richest 
dukedom in it ? — I have a large family of chil- 
dren, and the prospect of many more. I have 
three sons, who, I see already, have brought 
into the world souls ill qualified to inhabit the 
bodies of slaves. — Can I look tamely on, and 
see any machination to wrest from them the 
birthright of my boys, — the little independent 
Britons, in whose veins runs my own blood? — 
No ! I will not ! should my heart's blood stream 
around my attempt to defend it ! 

Does any man tell me, that my full eflforts 
ean be of no service ; and that it does not be- 
long to my humble station to meddle with the 
concern of a nation ? 

I can tell him, that it is on such individuals 
as I, that a nation has to rest, both for the 
hand of support, and the eye of intelligence. 
The uninformed mob may swell a nation' b bulk ; 
and the titled, tinsel, courtly throng, may be its 
feathered ornament; but the number of those 
who are elevated enough in life to reason and to 
reflect ; yet low enough to keep clear of the 
venal contagion of a court ! — these are a nation's 
strength. 

I know not how to apologize for the imperti- 
nent length of this epistle ; but one mall re- 
quest I must ask of you further — when you have 
honoured this letter with a perusal, please to 



commit it to the flames. Burns, in whose oe- 
half you have so generously interested yourselfc, 
I have here in his native colours drawn as he is , 
but should any of the people in whose hands i« 
the very bread he eatsj get the least knowledge 
of the picture, it would ruin the poor baed fot 
ever! 

My poems having just come out in anothef 

edition, I beg leave to present you with a copy, 

as a small mark of that high esteem and ardent 

gratitude, with which I have the honour to be, 

Sir, 

Your deeply indebted. 

And ever devoted humble servant, 
R. B. 



CCLVI. 

TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

[" Up tails a', by the light o' the moon," was the nrme 
of a Scottish air, to which the devil danced with the 
witches of Fife, on Magus Moor, as reported by a war- 
lock, in that credible work, " Satan's Invisible World 
discovered."] 

April 26, 1793. 

I AM d-mnably out of humour, my dear Ains 
lie, and that is the reason, why I take up the 
pen to you : 'tis the nearest way (probatum est) 
to recover my spirits again. 

I received your last, and was much enter- 
tained with it ; but I will not at this time, nor at 
any other time, answer it. — Answer a letter ? 1 
never could answer a letter in my' life ! — I have 
written many a letter in return for letters I 
have received ; but then — they were original 
matter — spurt-away ! zig here, zag there ; as 
if the devil that, my Grannie (an old woman in- 
deed) often told me, rode on will-o'-wisp, or, in 
her more classic phrase, Spunkie, were looking 
over my elbow. — Happy thought that idea has 
engendered in my head ! Spunkie — thou shalt 
henceforth be my symbol signature, and tutelary 
genius ! Like thee, hap-step-and-lowp, here- 
awa-there-awa, higglety-pigglety, pell-mell, 
hither-and-yon, ram-stam, happy-go-lucky, up- 
tails-a'-by-the-light-o'-the-moon, — has been, is, 
and shall be, my progress through the mosses 
ind moors of this vile, bleak, barren wilderness 
of a life of ours. 

Come then, my guardian spirit, like thee may 
I skip away, amusing myself by and at my own 
light : and if any opaqae-souled lubber of man- 
kind complain thpt my elfine, lambent, glim 



OF -ROBERT BURNS. 



461 



merous wanderings have misled his stnpid steps 
over precipi'^es, or into bogs, let the thickheaded 
blunderbuss recollect, that he is not Spukkie : 
—that 

^' Spvniik's -wicderings could not copied be : 
Aniiil thesa perils none durst walk but he." — 
* * -x- * -Sfr 

1 have no doubt but scholarcraft may be 
taught, as a Scotchman catches the itch, — by 
frictVQ. How else can you account for it, that 
torn blockheads, by mere dint of handling books, 
grow so wise that even they themselves are 
eqxially convinced of and surprised at their own 
parts ? I once carried this philosophy to that 
degree that in a knot of country folks who had 
a library amongst them, and who, to the honour 
of theii good sense, made me factotum in the 
business ; one of our members, a little, wise- 
looking, squat, upright, jabbering body of a 
tailor, I advised him, instead of turning over 
the leaves, to bind the book on his back. — Jonnnie 
took the hint ; and as our meetings were every 
fourth Saturday, and Pricklouse having a good 
Scots mile to walk in coming, and, of course, 
another in returning. Bodkin was sure to lay 
his hand on some heavy quarto, or ponderous 
folic, with, and under which, wrapt up in his 
gray plaid, he grew wise, as he grew weary, all 
the way home. He carried this so far, that an 
old musty Hebrew concordance, which we had 
in a present from a neighbouring priest, by mere 
dint of applying it, as doctors do a blistering 
plaster, between his shoulders. Stitch, in a dozen 
pilgrimages, acquired as much rational theology 
as the said priest had done by forty years pe- 
rusal of the pages. 

Tell me, and tell me truly, what you think of 
this theory. 

Tours, 

Spunkie. 



CCLVII. 
TO MISS KENNEDY. 

fMiM KejBedy was one of that numerous band of ladies 
^ho patronized the poet in Edinburgh ; she was related 
i the Hamiltons of Mossgiel.J 

Madam, 

Permit me to present you with the enclosed 

long as a small though grateful tribute for the 

honour of your acquaintance. I have, in these 

tarses, attempted some faint sketches of your 



portrait in the un embellished simple manner ol 
descriptive truth. — Flattery, I leave to yoni 
LOVERS, whose exaggerating fancies may mak« 
them imagine you still nearer perfection than 
you really are. 

Poets, Madam, of all mankind, feel most for- 
cibly the powers of beauty; as, if they art 
really poets of nature's making, their feelmga 
must be finer, and their taste more delicate tban 
most of the world. In the cheerful bloom of 
SPRING, or the pensive mildness of autumn ; the 
grandeur of summer, or the hoary majesty of 
winter, the poet feels a charm unknown to the 
rest of his species. Even the sight of a fine 
flower, or the company of a fine woman (by fai 
the finest part of God's works below), have sen- 
sations for the poetic heart that the herd of 
man are strangers to. — On this last account, 
Madam, I am, as in many other things, indebt- 
ed to Mr. Hamilton's kindness in introducing 
me to you. Your lovers may view you with a 
wish, I look on you with pleasure ; their hearts, 
in your presence, may glow with desire, mine 
rises with admiration. 

That the arrows of misfortune, however they 
should, as incident to humanity, glance a slight 
wound, may never reach your heart — that the 
snares of villany may never beset you in the 
road of life — that innocence may hand you by 
the path of honour to the dwelling of peace, is 
the sincere wish of him who has the honour te 
be, &c. R. B. 



CCLVIII. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The name of the friend who fell a iXcrifice to tho» 
changeable t^mes, has not been menti jned : it is beljsv**! 
he was of the west country.] 

June, 1793. 

When I tell you, my dear Sir, that % iriend 
of mine in whom I am much interested has fall- 
en a sacrifice to these accursed times, you will 
easily allow that it might unhinge me for doing 
any good among ballads. My own loss as to 
pecuniary matters is trifling; but the total ruin 
of a much-loved friend is a loss indeed. Par- 
don my seeming inattention to your last com- 
mands. 

I cannot alter the disputed lines in the " Millj 



im 



GENEEAL COERESPONDENCE 



Mill, 0!"^ What you think a defect, I esteem 
us a positive beauty ; so you see how doctors 
differ. I shall now, with as much alacrity as I 
can muster, go on with your commands. 

You know Frazer, the hautboy-player in 
Edinburgh — he is here, instructing a band of 
music for a fencible corps quartered in this 
county. Among many of his airs that please 
me, there is one, well known as a reel, by the 
name of "The Quaker's Wife ;" and which, I 
remember, a grand-aunt of mine used to sing, 
by the name of "Liggeram Cosh, my bonnie 
wee lass." Mr. Frazer plays it slow, and with 
an expression that quite charms me. I became 
Buch an enthusiast about it, that I made a song 
for it, which I here subjoin, and enclose Fra- 
zer's set of the tune. If they hit your fancy, 
they are at your service ; if not, return me the 
tune, and I will put it in Johnson's Museum. I 
think the song is not in my worst manner. 

Blythe hae I been on yon hill,^ 

I should wish to hear how this pleases you. 

R. B. 



CCLIX. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[AgainSw the mighty oppressors of the earth the poet 
was ever ready to set the sharpest shafts of his wrath : 
the times in w^hich he wrote were sadly out of sorts.] 

June 25th, 1793. 
Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bosom 
ready to burst with indignation, on reading of 
those mighty villains who divide kingdoms, de- 
solate provinces, and lay nations waste, out of 
the wantonness of ambition, or often from still 
more ignoble passions ? In a mood of this kind 
to-day I recollected the air of "Logan Water," 
and it occurred to nie that its querulous melody 
p ?obably had its origin from the plaintive indig- 
BJLtion of some swelling, suffering heart, fired 
at the tyrannic strides of some public destroyer, 
&ai1 overwhelmed with private distress, the con- 
Bequence of a country's ruin. If I have done 

• *' The lines were the third and fourth : 

' Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 
And mony a widow mourning.' 

ia out Ticet had maintained a long silence, and the first 
umber of Mr. Thomson 's musical work was in the press, 

?hi8 gentleman ventured, by Mr. Erskine's advice, to sub- 
ntute f'j them, in that publication. 



anything at all like justice to my feelings, th« 
following song, composed in three-quarters of 
an hour's meditation in my elbow-chair, ougbi 
to have some merit: — 

Logan, sweetly didst thou glide.^ 

Do you know the following beautiful liUU 
fragment, in Wotherspoon's collection of Scotf 
songs ?"* 

Air — ^^ Hughie Graham." 
"Oh gin my love were yon red rose, 
That grows upon the castle wa' ; 
And I mysel' a drap o' dew, 
Into her bonnie breast to fa' i 

" Oh there, beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a' the night, 
Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 
Till fley'd awa by Phoebus light !" 

This thought is inexpressibly beautiful ; and 
quite, so far as I know, original. It is too short 
for a song, else I would forswear you altogether 
unless you gave it a place. I have often tried 
to eke a stanza to it, but in vain. After ba- 
lancing myrelf for a musing five minutes, on the 
hind legs of my elbow-chair, I produced the fol- 
lowing. 

The verses are far inferior to the foregoing, I 
frankly confess : but if worthy of insertion at 
all, they might be first in place ; as every poet 
who knows anything of his trade, will husband 
his best thoughts for a concluding stroke. 

Oh were my love yon lilac fair, 
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring; 

And I a bird to shelter there. 

When wearied on my little wing ! 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild and winter rude ! 

But I wad sing on wanton wing. 

When youthfu' May its bloom renewed.* 

KB. 



' And eyes again with pleasure beam'd 
That had been blear'd with mourning.' 
Though better suited to the music, these lines are infeti* 
to the original." — Currie. 

2 Song CXV. 3 Song CXCVI. 

4 Better known as Herd's. Wotherspoon was OKte p 
the publishers. 
6 See Song CXCVII. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



463 



CCLX. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

( riiJ-n«>«n, in his reply to the preceding letter, laments 
Ifti-t anythr^f should untune the feelings of the poet, and 
b9^s his acceptance of five pounds, as a small mark of 
(if gratitude for his beautiful songs.] 

July 2d, 1793. 
My dear Sir, 
1 HAVE just finished the following ballad, and, 
M I io think it in my best style, I send it you. 
Mr. Clarke, who wrote down the air from Mrs. 
Burns's wood-note wild, is very fond of it, and 
has given it a *".elebrity by teaching it to some 
yaung ladies of the first fashion here. If you 
do not like the air enough to give it a place in 
your collection, please return it. The song you 
may keep, as I remember it. 

There was a lass, and she was fair.^ 

I have some thoughts of inserting in your 
index, or in my notes, the names of the fair ones, 
the themes of my songs. I do not mean the 
name at full ; but dashes or asterisms, so as 
ingenuity may find them out. 

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M'Murdo, 
daughter to Mr. M'Murdo, of Drumlanrig, one 
of your subscribers. I have not painted her in 
the rank which she holds in life, but in the dress 
and character of a cottager. R. B. 



CCLXI. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Burns in this letter speaks of the pecuniary present 
irhich Thomson sent him, in a lofty and angry mood : he 
^'ho pul)lished poems by subscription might surely have 
accepted, without any impropriety, payment for his 
•onga.] 

July, 1793. 
I ASSURE you, my dear Sir, that you truly 
birt rae with your pecuniary parcel. It de- 
grades me in my own eyes. However, to return 
It would savour of affectation ; but, as to any 
moi: trilKc of that debtor and creditor kind, I 
iwear 'jy that honour which crowns the up- 
r.ght statue of Robert Burns's Integrity — 
tathe least motion of it, I will indignantly spurn 
the bypast transaction, and from that moment 
rommence entire stranger to you ! Burns's cha- 
lactei for generosity of sentiment and indepen- 

- .-..,ig (jXCVIII. 

* itiJrs Rutherf )rci, of Fernilee in SelHrkshire, by mar- 



dence of mind, will, I trust, long outlive any 
of his wants which the cold unfeeling ore can 
supply ; at least, I will take care that such a 
character he shall deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publication. 
Never did my eyes behold in any musical work 
such elegance and correctness. Your prefr.ce, 
too, is admirably written, only your parti alitj 
to me has made you say too much : however, it 
will bind me down to double every effort in me 
future progress of the work. The following 
are a few remarks on the songs in the list you 
sent me. 1 never copy what I write to j'ou, so 
I may be often tautological, or perhaps contra- 
dictory. 

*' The Flowers o' the Forest," is charming as 
a poem, and should be, and must be, set to the 
notes; but, though out of your rule, the three 
stanzas beginning, 

"I've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling," 
are worthy of a place, .were it but to immortal 
ize the author of them, who is an old lady of 
my acquaintance, and at this moment living in 
Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn, I forget 
of what place, but from Roxburghshire. ^ What 
a charming apostrophe is 

" O fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting, 
Why thus perplex us, poor sons of a day ?" 

The old ballad, " I wish I were where Helen 
lies," is silly to contemptibility. My alteration 
of it, in Johnson's, is not much better. Mr. 
Pinkerton, in his, what he calls, ancient ballads 
(many of them notorious, though beautiful 
enough, forgeries), has the best set. It is full 
of his own interpolations — but no matter. 

In ray next I will suggest to your considera- 
tion a few songs which may have escaped your 
hurried notice. In the meantime allow me to 
congratulate you now, as a brother of the quill. 
You have committed your character and fame, 
which will now be tried, for ages to come, by 
the illustrious jury of the Sons and Dai gk 
TERS OF Taste — all whom poesy can please of 
music charm. 

Being a bard of nature, I have some preten- 
sions to second sight ; and I am warranted bj 
the spirit to foretell and affirm, that your great' 
grand-child will hold up your volumes, and say, 
with honest pride, '* This so inuch admired sfe 
lection was the work of my ancestor!" 

R. B. 



riage Mrs Patrick Cockburn, 
1794, at an advanced ago. 



Vrmistot She die** i» 



404 



GENERAL OOERESPONDENCE 



CCLXII. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Stephen Clarke, whose name is at this strange note, 
was a musician and composer ; he was a clever man, and 
had 2 high opinion of his own powers.] 

August, 1793. 
My deae, Thomson, 

I HOLD the pen for our friend Clarke, who at 
present is studying the music of the spheres at 
my elbow. The Georgium Sidus he thinks is 
rather out of tune ; so, until he rectify that 
matter, he cannot stoop to terrestrial affairs. 

He sends you six of the rondeau subjects, and 
if more are wanted, he says you shall have 
t\em. 



* * * -Sf- * 

Confound your long stairs ! 



S. Clarke. 



CCLXIII. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[" Phillis the Fair" endured much at the hands of both 
■^urns and Clarke. The young lady had reason to com- 
plain, when the poet volunteered to sing the imaginary 
love of that fantastic fiddler.] 

August, 1793. 

Your objection, my dear Sir, to the passages 
in my song of "Logan Water," is right in one 
instance ; but it is difl&cult to mend it : if I can, 
I will. The other passage you object to does 
not appear in the same light to me. 

I have tried my hand on " Robin Adair," and, 
you will probably think, with little success ; but 
it is such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way mea- 
sure, that I despair of doing anything better to 
it. 

While larks with little wing.^ 

So much for namby-pamby. I may, after all, 
try my hand on it in Scots verse. There I 
always find myself most at home. 

I hfiV3 just put the last hand to the song I 
caeant fir " Cauld kail in Aberdeen." If it suits 
you to insert it, I shall be pleased, as the hero- 
ine is a favourite of mine ; if not, I shall also 
be pleased; because I wish, and will be glad, 
to, see you act decidedly on the business. 'Tis 
a tribute as a man of taste, and as an editor, 
which you owe yourself. 

E. B. 

1 Song CXCIX. 



CCLXIV. 
TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The infusion of Highland airs and north country Bn6> 
jects into the music and songs of Scotland, has invigora* 
ted both : Burns, who had a fine ear as well as a fina 
taste, was familiar with all, either Highland or Low- 
land.] 

August, 1793. 
That crinkum-crankum tune, " Robin Adair, ** 
has run so in my head, and I succeeded so ill in 
my last attempt, that I have ventured, in this 
morning's walk, one essay more. You, my dear 
Sir, will remember an unfortunate part of our 
worthy friend Cunningham's story, which hap 
pened about three years ago. That struck my 
fancy, and I endeavoured to do the idea justice 
as follows : 

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore.' 

By the way, I have met with a musical High 
lander in Breadalbane's Fencibles, which are 
quartered here, who assures me that he well 
remembers his mother singing Gaelic songs to 
both "Robin Adair," and " Grammachree." 
They certainly have more of the Scotch than 
Irish taste in them. 

This man comes from the vicinity of Inver 
ness : so it could not be any intercourse with 
Ireland that could bring them ; except, what I 
shrewdly suspect to be the case, the wandering 
minstrels, harpers, and pipers, used to go fre 
quently errant through the wilds both of Scot 
land and Ireland, and so some favourite aira 
might be common to both, A case in point — 
they have lately, in Ireland, published an Irish 
air, as they say, called "Caun du delish." The 
fact is, in a publication of Corri's, a great while 
ago, you will find the same air, called a High- 
land one, with a Gaelic song set to it. Its 
name there, I think, is "Oran Gaoil," and a 
fine air it is. Do ask honest Allan or the Rev. 
Gaelic parson, about these matters. 

R. B. 



CCLXV. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[While Burns composed songs, Thomson got som» » 
the happiest embodied by David Allan, the painter^ whose 
illustrations of the Gentle Shepherd had been favourably 
received. But save when an old man was admitted to 

3 SoDff CC 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



46d 



.jie acane, his designs may be regarded as failures: his 
riaidens were coarse and his old wives rigwiddie 
rariins.] 

August^ 1793. 
My dear Sir, 

*'Let me in this ae night" I will reconsider. 
r am glad that you are pleased with my song, 
" Had I a cave," &c., as I liked it myself. 

I walked out yesterday evening with a volume 
of *he Museum in my hand, when turning up 
" Allan Water," *' What numbers shall the muse 
repeat," &c., as the words appeared to me rather 
unworthy of so fine an air, and recollecting that 
it is on your list, I sat and raved under the 
shade of an eld thorn, till I wrote one to suit 
the measure. I may be vsrrong; but I think it 
not in my worst style. You must know, that in 
Ramsay's Tea-table, where the modern song 
first appeared, the ancient name of the tune, 
Allan says, is "Allan Water," or ''My love 
Annie's very bonnie." This last has certainly 
been a lino of the original song ; so I took up 
the idea, pud, as you will see, have introduced 
the line in its place, which I presume it formerly 
occupied ; though I likewise give you a choosing 
line, if it should not hit the cut of your fancy : 

By Allan stream I chanced to rove.^ 

Bravo ! say I ; it is a good song. Should you 
think so too (not else) you can set the music to 
it, and let the other follow as English verses. 

Autumn is my propitious season. I make 
more verses in it than all the year else. God 
bless you ! R. B. 



CCLXVI. 

TO^MR. THOMSON. 

[Phillis, or Philadelphia M'Murdo, in whose honour 
Burns composed the song beginning "Adown wmding 
Nith I did wander," £i.nd several others, died September 
5th, 1825.] 

August, 1793. 
Ts "Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad," 
one of your airs ? I admire it much ; and yes- 
terday I set the following verses to it, Urbani, 
whom I have met with here, begged them of 
me, as he admires the air much ; but as I under- 
stand that he looks with rather an evil eye on 
your work, I did not choose to comply. How- 
ever, if the song does not suit your taste I may 



possibly send it him. The set of the air which 
I had in my eye, is in Johnson's Museum. 

whistle, and I'll come to yoa, my lad.^ 

Another favourite air of mine is, " Th« 
muckin' o' Geordie's byre." When sung slow, 
with expression, I have wished that it had had 
better poetry ; that I have endeavoured to supply 
as follows : 

Adown winding Nith I did wander.^ 

Mr. Clarke begs you to give Miss Philliis a 
corner in your book, as she is a particular flamo 
of his, and out of compliment to him I have 
made the song. She is a Miss Phillis M'Murdo, 
sister to " Bonnie Jean." They are both pupils 
of his. You shall hear from me, the very first 
grist I get from my rhyming-mill. 

K. B 



COLXVII. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Burns was fond of expressive words : " b'.oaming, the 
twilight," says Currie, " is a beautiful pciitic word, 
which ought to be adopted in England." Lnms and 
Scott have made the Scottish language popular ..ver the 
world.") 

August, 1798. 
That tune, " Cauld kail," is such a favourita 
of yours, that I once more roved out yesterday 
for a gloamin-shot at the muses ; when the muse 
that presides o'er the shores of Nith, or rather 
my old inspiring dearest nymph, Coila, whis- 
pered me the following. I have two reasons for 
thinking that it was my early, sweet simple in- 
spirer that was by my elbow, " smooth gliding 
without step," and pouring the song on my 
glowing fancy. In the first place, since I left 
Coila's native haunts, not a fragment of a poet 
has arisen to cheer her solitary musings, by 
catching inspiration from her, so I more than 
suspect that she has followed me hither, or, at 
least, makes me occasional visits ; secondly, the 
last stanza of this song I send you, is the very 
words that Coila taught me many years ago, and 
which I set to an old Scots reel in Johnson'a 
Museum. 

Come, let me take thee to my breast.-* 

If you think the above will suit your idea of 



1 Song CCI 
30 



ecu. 



3 Song CCIII 



4 Song CCIV. 



466 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



your favourite air, I shall be highly pleased. 
•' The last time I came o'er the moor" I cannot 
meddle with, as to mending it ; and the musical 
world have been so long accustomed to Ramsay's 
words, that a different song, though positively 
superior, would not be so well received. I am 
not fond of choruses to songs, so I have not 
ma le one for the foregoing. 

R. B. 



CCLXVIII. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[" Cauld kail in Aberdeen, and castocks in Strabogie," 
are words which have no connexion with the sentiment 
©f the song which Bums wrote for the air.] 

j> August, 1793. 

Song. 
Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers. * 

So much for Davie. The chorus, you know, 
IS to the low part of the tune. See Clarke's set 
of it in the Museum. 

N. B. In the Museum they have drawled out 

the tune to twelve lines of poetry, which is 

nonsense. Four lines of song, and four of 
chorus is the way.2 



CCLXIX. 
TO MISS CRAIK 

[Miss Helen Craik, of Arbigland, had merit both as a 
poetess and novelist : her ballads may be compared with 
.hose of Hector M'Neil : her novels had a seasoning of 
,atire in them.] 

Dumfries, August, 1793. 
Madam, 

Some rather unlooked-for accidents have pre- 
sented my doing myself thi honour of a second 
fisH to Arbigland, as I was so hospitably in- 
fited and sc positively meant to have done. — 
S "jT'cJver, 1 still hope to have that pleasure be- 
fore the busy months of harvest begin. 

I enclose you two of my late pieces, as some 
kind of return for the pleasure I have received 
in perusing a certain MS. volume of poems in 
the possession of Captain Riddel. To repay one 
wdth an old song, is a proverb, whose force, you, 
Vladam, I know, will not allow. What is said 



Sonj 0C> 



2SeeSoii«LXVIl, 



of illustrious descent is, I believe, equally trui 
of a talent for poetry, none ever despised it who 
had pretensions to it. The fates and characters 
of the rhyming tribe often employ my thoughts 
when I am disposed to be melancholy. There 
is not, among all the martyrologies that ever 
were penned, so rueful a narrative as the lives 
of the poets. — In the comparative view of 
wretches, the criterion is not what they are 
doomed to suffer, but how they are formed to 
bear. Take a being of our kind, give him a 
stronger imagination and a more delicate sensi- 
bility, which between them will ever engender 
a more ungovernable set of passions than are 
the usual lot of man ; implant in him an irre- 
sistible impulse to some idle vagary, such as 
arranging wild flowers in fantastical nosegays, 
tracing the grasshopper to his haunt by his 
chirping song, watching the frisks of the little 
minnows in the sunny pool, or hunting after the 
intrigues of butterflies— r in short, send him 
adrift after some pursuit which shall eternally 
mislead him from the paths of lucre, and yet 
curse him with a keener relish than any man 
living for the pleasures that lucre can purchase ; 
lastly, fill up the measure of his woes by be- 
stowing on him a spurning sense of his own 
dignity, and you have created a wight nearly as 
miserable as a poet. To you, Madam, I need 
not recount the fairy pleasures the muse be&towa 
to counterbalance this catalogue of evils. Be- 
witching poetry is like bewitching woman ; she 
has in all ages been accused of misleading man- 
kind from the councils of wisdom and the paths 
of prudence, involving them in difficulties, 
baiting them with poverty, branding them with 
infamy, and plunging them in the whirling vor- 
tex of ruin ; yet, where is the man but must 
own that all our happiness on earth is not worthy 
the name — that even the holy hermit's solitary 
prospect of paradisiacal bliss is but the glittei 
of a northern sun rising over a frozen region 
compared with the many pleasures, the nam« 
less raptures that we owe to the k^vely queest 
of the heart of man ! R. B. 



CCLXX. 
TO LADY GLENCAIRN. 

[Burns, as tlie concluding paragraph of this lettn 
proves, continued to the Inst years of his life to think o' 
the composition of a Scottish drama, which Sir Waltei 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



46. 



Scatt laments he did not write, instead of pouring out 
multitudes of lyrics for Johnson and Thomson ] 

My Lady, 
The honour you have done your poor poet, in 
writing him so very obliging a letter, and the 
pleasure the enclosed beautiful verses have 
given him, came very seasonably to his aid, 
amid the cheerless gloom and sinking despond- 
«ucy jf diseased nerves and December weather. 
Aa to forgetting the family of Glencairn, Heaven 
£ my witness with what sincerity I could use 
'those old verses which please me more in their 
rude simplicity than the most elegant lines I 
ever saw. 

" If thee, Jerusalem, I forget, 

Skill part from m}- ri^ht hand. 

Aly tongue to my mouth's roof let cleave, 

If I do thee forget, 
Jerusalem, and thee above 

My chief joy do not set." — 

When I am tempted to do anything improper, 
I darf> not, because I look on myself as account- 
able *ii your ladyship and family. Now and 
then, when I have the honour to be called to 
the tables of the great, if I happen to meet with 
any mortification from the stately stupidity of 
«elf-sufficient squires, or the luxurious insolence 
uf upstart nabobs, I get above the creatures by 
calling to remembrance that I am patronized 
by the noble house of Glencairn ; and at gala- 
times, such as new-year's day, a christening, or 
the kirn-night, when my punch-bowl is brought 
from its dusty corner and filled up in honour of 
the occasion, I begin with, — The Countess of 
Glencairn! My good woman with the enthusiasm 
of a grateful heart, next cries, 3Ii/ Lord! and 
BO the toast goes on until I end with Lady H«,r- 
rieCs little angel! whose epithalamium I have 
pledged myself to write. 

When I received your ladyship's letter, I was 
Justin the act of transcribing for you some verses 
I have lately composed ; and meant to have sent 
them my first leisure hour, and acquainted you 
rith my late change of life. I mentioned to 
my lord my fears concerning my farm. Those 
fears were indeed too true ; it is a bargain 
would have ruined me, but for the lucky circum- 
ftance of my having an excise commission. 

People may talk as they please, of the igno- 
miny of the excise ; 50^ a year will support my 
wife and children, and keep me independent of 
the world ; and I would much rather have it 
laid that my profession borrowed credit from 
too. than that I borrowed credit from my pro- 



fession. Another advantage I have in this 
business, is the knowledge it gives me of the 
various shades of human character, consequently 
assisting me vastly in my poetic pursuits. 1 
had the most ardent enthusiasm for the mus aa 
when nobody knew me, but myself, and that 
ardour is by no means cooled now that mj lord 
Glencairn's goodness has introduced me to al] 
the world. Not that I am in haste for the preid 
I have no idea of publishing, else I certainly 
had consulted my noble generous patron ; but 
after acting the part of an honest man, and 
supporting my family, my whole wishes and 
views are directed to poetic pursuits. I am 
aware that though I were to give performances 
to the world superior to my former works, still 
if they were of the same kind with those, the 
comparative reception they would meet with 
would mortify me. I have turned my thoughts 
on the drama. I do not mean the stately buskin 
of the tragic muse. 

it * * * 

Does not your ladyship think that an Edin- 
burgh theatre would be more amused with affec- 
tation, folly, and whim of true Scottish growth, 
than manners which by far the greatest part 
of the audience can only know at second 
hand? 

I have the honour to be. 

Your ladyship's ever devoted 
And grateful humble servant, 
K V 



CCLXXI. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Peter Pindar, the name under which it was the p.ea 
sure of that bitter but vulgar satirist, Dr. Wolcot, to 
write, was a man of little lyrical talent. He pu-cha^ea 
a good annuity for the remainder of his life, by t'le jv^py- 
right of his works, and survived his populaniv oihay 
years.] 

Sept. 1793. 

You may readily trust, my dear Sir, that <it)y 
exertion in my power is heartily at your service 
But one thing I must hint to you ; the verj 
name of Peter Pindar is of great service to youi 
publication, so get a verse from him now and 
then; though I have no objection, as well ap 1 
can, to bear the burden of the business. 

You know that my pretensions to musical 
taste are merely a few of nature's instincts. 
untaught and untutored by art. For this rea- 
son, many musical compositions, particularly 



408 



GENEliAL CORRESPONDENCE 



where much of the merit lies in counterpoint, 
however they may transport and ravish the ears 
of your connoisseurs, affect my simple lug no 
otherwise than merely as melodious din. On 
the other hand, by way of amends, I am de- 
lighted with many little melodies, which the 
learned musician despises as silly and insipid. 
I do not know whether the old air " Hey tuttie 
taitie," may rank among this number; but well 
I know that, with Frazer's haut-boy, it has 
often filled my eyes with tears. There is a 
tradition, which I have met with in many places 
in Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce's march 
at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, 
in yesternight's evening walk, warmed me to a 
pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty and 
independence, which I threw into a kind of 
Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one might 
suppose to be the gallant Royal Scot's address 
to his heroic followers on the eventful morning. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled.^ 

So may God ever defend the cause of truth 
and liberty, as he did that day ! Amen. 

P.S. I showed the air to Urbani, who was 
highly pleased with it, and begged me to make 
soft verses for it ; but I had no idea of giving 
myself any trouble on the subject, till the acci- 
dental recollection of that glorious struggle for 
freedom, associated with the glowing ideas of 
some other struggles of the same nature, not 
quite so ancient, roused my rhyming mania. 
Clarke's set of the tune, with his bass, you will 
find in the Museum, though I am afraid that 
the air is not what will entitle it to a place in 
your elegant selection. R. B. 



CCLXXII. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

(This letter contains further proof of the love of Burns 
irir tne aj rs of the Highlands.] 

Se2)t. 1793. 
I DAEE say, my dear Sir, that you will begin 
to think my correspondence is persecution. No 
matter, I can't help it ; a ballad is my hobby- 
Dorse, which, though otherwise a simple sort 
>f harmless idiotical beast enough, has yet this 
Wflssei headstrong property, that when once it 



> «^on? CCVII. 



aSonffCCVIII. 



has fairly made off with a hapless wight, it get« 
so enamoured with the tinkle-gingle, tinkle* 
gingle of its own bells, that it is sure to run 
poor pilgarlick, the bedlam jockey, quite be- 
yond any useful point or post in the common 
race of men. 

The following song I have composed foJ 
** Oran-gaoil," the Highland air that, you tell 
me in your last, you haee resolved to give a 
place to in your book. I havb this moment 
finished the song, so you have it glowing from 
the mint. If it suit you, well ! — If not, 'tie also 
well! 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive 1 

R a 



CCLXXIIl. 

TOMR. THOMSON. 

[This is another of the sagacious letters on Scottisi 
song, which poets and musicians would do well to read 
and consider.] 

Sept. 1793. 

I BAVB received your list, my dear Sir, and 
here go my observations on it.'^ 

"Down the burn, Davie." I have this mo- 
ment tried an alteration, leaving out the last 
half of the third stanza, and the first half of th« 
last stanza, thus : 

As down the burn they took their way, 

And thro' the flowery dale ; 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 

And love was aye the tale. 
With "Mary, when shall we r<'*»irn, 

Sic pleasure to renew ?" 
Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn. 

And aye shall follow you."^ 

" Thro' the wood, laddie" — I am decidedly of 
opinion that both in this, and "There'll never 
be peace till Jamie comes hame," the second oi 
high part of the tune being a repetition of the 
first part an octave higher, is only for instru- 
mental music, and would be much better omit- 
ted in singing. 

" Cowden-knowes." Remember in your indet 
that the song in pure English to this tune, be' 
ginning, 

"When summer comes, the swains on Tweed," 



J Mr. Thomson's list of songs for his publication, 
i This is an alteration o^'oiie of Crawfurd's sonpi* 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



4tfb 



is the pre luction of Crawfard. Robert was his 
Christian name.' 

*' Laddie, lie near me," must lie by me for 
gome time. I do not know the air ; and until I 
am complete master of a tune, In my own singing 
(such as it is), I can never compose for it. My 
way is : I consider the poetic sentiment corre- 
ipondent to my idea of the musical expression ; 
Ihen choose my theme ; begin one stanza : when 
that is composed, which is generally the most 
difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit 
down now and then, look out for objects of na- 
ture around me that are in unison and harmony 
with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings 
of my bosom ; humming every now and then the 
air with the verses I have framed. When I feel my 
muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary 
fire-side of my study, and there commit my effu- 
sions to paper; swinging at intervals on the 
hind-legs of my elbow-chair, by way of calling 
forth my own critical strictures as my pen goes 
on. Seriously, this, at home, is almost invari- 
ably my way. 

What cursed egotism ! 

*' Gil Morice" I am for leaving out. It is a 
plaguy length ; the air itself is never sung ; and 
its place can well be supplied by one or two 
Bongs for fine airs that are not in your list — for 
instance " Craigieburn-wood" and " Roy's wife." 
The first, tieside its intrinsic merit, has novelty, 
an<^ the last has high merit as well as great 
celebrity. " I have the original words of a song 
for the last air, in the handwriting of the lady 
who composed it ; and they are superior to any 
edition of the song which the public has yet 
Been. 

" Highland laddie." The old set will please 
a mere Scotch ear best ; and the new an Italian- 
ised one. There is a third, and what Oswald 
calls the old " Highland laddie," which pleases 
me more than eithet of them. It is sometimes 
called " Ginglin Johnnie ;" it being the air of an 
old humorous tawdry song of that name. You 
will find it in the Museum, *' I hae been at 
Crcikieden," &c. I would advise you, in the 
musical quandary, to offer up your prayers to 
he muses for inspiring direction; and in the 
gaeantime, waiting for this direction^ bestow a 
libation to Bacchus ; and there is not a doubt 
but 3 9U vill hit on a judicious choice. Proba- 
\litm est. 

1 Hie Christian name was William. 
-H;^g CXCY 



' " Auld Sir Simon" I must l^weg you to leav« 
out, and put in its place " The Quaker's wife." 

*' Ely the hae I been on yon hill, "2 is one of 
the finest songs ever I made in my life, and, be- 
sides, is composed on a young lady, positivelji 
the most beautiful, lovely woman in the worliJ 
As I purpose giving you the names and desig- 
nations of all my heroines, to appear in some 
future edition of your work, perhaps half « 
century hence, you must certainly include "The 
bonniest lass in a' the warld," in your col 
lection. 

"Dainty Davie" I have heard sung nineteen 
thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine times, 
and always with the chorus to the low part of 
the tune ; and nothing has surprised me so 
much as your opinion on this subject. If it will 
not suit as I proposed^ we will lay two of the 
stanzas together, and then make the chorus fol- 
low, exactly as Lucky Nancy in the Museum. 

" Fee him, father :" I enclose you Frazerp 
set of this tune when he plays it slow : in fact 
he makes it the language of despair. I shall 
here give you two stanzas, in that style, merely 
to try if it will be any improvement. Were it 
possible, in singing, to give it half the pathos 
which Frazer gives it in playing, it would make 
an admirably pathetic song. I do not giva 
these verses for any merit they have. I com 
posed them at the time in which " Patie Allan's 
mither died — that was about the back o' mid- 
night ;" and by the lee-side of a bowl of punch, 
which had overset every mortal in company ex- 
cept the hautbois and the muse. 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie.^ 

*' Jockie and Jenny" I would discard, and in 
its place would put " There's nae luck about 
the house,"^ which has a very pleasant air, and 
which is positively the finest love-ballad in that 
style in the Scottish, or perhaps in any other 
language. "When she came ben she boblit," 
as an air is more beautiful than either, and ia 
the andante way would unite with a charminK 
sentimental ballad. 

" Saw ye my father ?" is one of ray greatest 
favourites. The evening before last, I wandered 
out, and began a tender song, in what I think 
is its native style. I must premise that the old 
way, and the way t^o give most effect, is to have 
no starting note, as the fiddlers call it, but to 



3 SonjT CCIX. 

4 By Williapa Julius MicklA 



4V0 



GENERAL COREESPONDENCE 



6niBt at once into the pathos. Every country 
girl sings " Saw ye my father ?" &c. 

My song is but just begun ; and I should like, 
before I proceed, to know your opinion of it. 
I have sprinkled it with the Scottish dialect, 
but it may be easily turned into correct Eng- 
lish.' 

" Todlin hame." Urbani mentioned an idea 
&{ his, which has long been mine, that this air 
is highly susceptible of pathos : accordingly, 
you will soon hear him at your concert try it 
to a song of mine in the Museum, "Ye banks 
and braes o' bonnie Doon." One song more and 
I have done; "Auld lang syne." The air is 
but mediocre ; but the following song, the old 
song of the olden times, and which has never 
been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I 
took it down from an old man's singing, is 
enough to recommend any air. 2 

JNow, 1 suppose, 1 have tried your patience 
fairly. You must, after all is over, have a 
number of ballads, properly so called. ** Gil 
Morice," "Tranent Muir," " Macpherson's fare- 
well," "Battle of Sherriff-muir," or, "We ran, 
and they ran," (I know the author of this charm- 
ing ballad, and his history,) "Hardiknute," 
" Barbara Allan" (I can furnish a finer set of 
this tune than any that has yet appeared ;) and 
besides do you know that I really have the old 
tune to which " The cherry and the slae" was 
sung, and which is mentioned as a well-known 
air in " Scotland's Complaint," a book published 
before poor Mary's days ?^ It was then called 
"The banks of Helicon;" an old poem which 
Pinkerton has brought to light. You will see 
all this in Tytler's history of Scottish music. 
The tune, to a learned ear, may have no great 
merit ; but it is a great curiosity. I have a 
good many original things of this kind. 

R. B. 



CCLXXIV. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

(Buriaa .sJ^ned too readily to the suggestion of Thom- 
son, to aiisr <' Brace's Address to his troops at Bannock- 
Durn :" whatever may be the merits of the air of " Louis 
Bordon," the sublime simplicity of the words was in- 

> The song here alluded to is one which the poet after- 
wards sent in an entire form : — 

* Where are the joys I tiae met m the morning." 
Song CCX. 



jured by the alteration: it is now sung as originall 
written, by a.l singers of taste.] 

September, 1793. 

I AM happy, my dear Sir, that my ode pleasd 
you so much. Your idea, " honour's bed," is, 
though a beautiful, <^ hackneyed idea ; so, if 
you please, we will let the line stand as it is, 
I have altered the song as follows : — '^ 

N. B. I have borrowed the last stanza from 
the common stall edition of Wallace — 

" A fa se usurper sinks in every foe, 
And liberty returns with evury blow. 

A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday yoti 
had enough of my correspondence. The post 
goes, and my head aches miserably. One 3om« 
fort ! I suffer so much, just now, in this wcrld, 
for last night's joviality, that I shall escape 
scot-free for it in the world to come. Amen. 

R. B. 



CCLXXV. 
TO MR. THOMPSON. 

[The poet's good sense rose at last in arras against the 
criticisms of the musician, and he refused to lessen tha 
dignity of his war-ode by any more alterations.] 

September, 1793. 

" Who shall decide when doctors disagree ?" 
My ode pleases me so much that I cannot alter 
it. Your proposed alterations would, in my 
opinion, make it tame. I am exceedingly obliged 
to you for putting me on reconsidering it, as I 
think I have much improved it. Instead of 
"sodger! hero!" I will have it "Caledonian, 
on wi' me !" 

I have scrutinized it over and over ; and to 
the world, some way or other, it shall go as it 
is. At the same time it will not in the least 
hurt me, should you leave it out altogether, and 
adhere to your first intention of adc^ting Logan'E 
verses. . 

I have finished my song to "Saw ye my fa- 
ther ?" and in English, as you will see. Th&t 
there is a syllable too much for the e spression 
of the air, is true ; but, allow me to say, that 
the mere dividing of a dotted crotchet into a 
crotchet and a quaver, is not a great matter : 
however, in that I have no pretensions to cope 
in judgment with you. Of the poetry I spealj 

* A curious and rare book, which Leyden afterwari^ 
edited. 
4 Song CCVII. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



471 



Irith confi ience ; but the music is a business 
Where I hint my ideas -with the utmost diffi- 
dence. 

The old vei'ses have merit, though unequal, 
and are popular : my advice is to set the air to 
the old words, and let mine follow as English 
verses. Here they are : — 

1*1 eic are the joys I have met in the morn- 
ing?' 

Adieu, n; r dear Sir ! the post goes, so I shall 
rfefer some other remarks until more leisure. 

R. B. 



CCLXXVI. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

\t'oT " Fy ! let us a' to the bridal," and " Fy ! gie me 
oa.- ;og0.°, S..e/' a:id " Fhert : nav acl: :ibov the 
house," Burns puts in a word of praise, from a feeling 
that Thomson's taste would induce him to exclude the 
first — one of ou* most original songs — from his collec- 

liOD.] 

September, 1793. 

I HAVE been turning over some volumes of 
songs, to find verses whose measures would suit 
the airs for which you have allotted me to find 
English songs. 

For " Muirland Willie," you have, in Ram- 
Bay's Tea-Table, an excellent song beginning, 
'* Ah, why those tears in Nelly's eyes ?" As for 
"The Collier's Dochter," take the following old 
bacchanal : — 

" Deluded swain, the pleasure, &c."2 

The faulty line in Logan-Water, I mend 
thus: 

How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ? 

The song otherwise will pass. As to *' M'Gre- 
gcira Rua-Ruth," you will see a song of mine 
to it, with a set of the air superior to yours, in 
tbt Museum, vol. ii. p. 181. The song begin^ 

Raving winds around her blowing.^ 

Tour Irish airs are pretty, but they are rank 
Irish. If they were like the *♦ Banks of Ban- 
na," for instance, though really Irish, yet in the 
Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since 
jon are so fond of Irish music, what say you to 



I 9^V9 CCXI. 



3 SonK LII. 



2 Song CCXII. 



twenty-five of them in an additional number ! 
We could easily find this quantity of charming 
airs ; I will take care that you shall not wani 
songs ; and I assure you that you would find il 
the most saleable of the whole. If you dc no! 
approve of " Roy's wife," for the music's sake, 
we shall not insert it. " Deil tak the wars" 1 
a charming song; so is, "Saw ye my Peggy? 
"There's nae luck about the house" well d« 
serves a place. I cannot say that " O'er th 
hills and far awa" strikes me as equal to yon. 
selection. " This is no my ain house," is a great 
favourite air of mine ; and if you will send me 
your set of it, I will task my muse to her highest 
effort. What is your opinion of "I hae laid a 
herrin' in saut ?" I like it much. Your Jaco- 
bite airs are pretty, and there are many others 
of the same kind pretty ; but you have not room 
for them You cannot. I think, mser* "Fy! 
leto a' tv^ the oridaly" w any othb* woias th<»n 
its own. 

What pleases me, as simple and na'ivey dis- 
gusts you as ludicrous and low. For this rea- 
son, "Fy ! gie me my coggie. Sirs," " Fy ! let's 
a' to the bridal," with several others of that 
cast, are to me highly pleasing ; while, "Saw 
ye my father, or saw ye my mother ?" delight? 
me with its descriptive simple pathos. Thus 
my song, " Ken ye what Meg o' the mill has 
gotten ?" pleases myself so much, that I cannot 
try my hand at another song to the air, so I 
shall not attempt it. I know you will laugh at 
all this ; out " ilka man wears his belt his ain 
gait." R. B 



CCLXXVn. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Of the Hon. Andrew j:iisKme an account was conjuu- 
nicated in a letter to Burns by Thomson, which the wri- 
ter has withheld. He was a gentleman of talent, acd 
joint projector of Thomson's now celebrated work.] 

October, 1793 
Youa last letter, my dear Tkomson, wac 
indeed laden with heavy news. Alas, poor 
Erskine !"* The recollection that he was a co- 
adjutator in your publication, has till now scared 
me from writing to you, or turning my thoughti 
on composing for you. 

4 " The honourable AndrewErskiniB, whose melancholy; 
death Mr. Thomson had communicated in an ezcelleg 
l«ttar, which he has suppressed."' — Cukrik 



472 



GENERAL COEEESPONDENCE 



I am pleased that you are reconciled to the 
Rir of the " Quaker's wife ;" though, by the bye, 
an old Highland gentleman, and a deep anti- 
quarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known 
by the name of "Leigerm' choss." The follow- 
ing verses, I hope, will please you, as an English 
Bong tc the air. 

Thine am I, my faithful fair : ^ 
Iruf objection to the English song I pro- 
posed for "John Anderson my jo," is certainly 
just. The following is by an old acquaintance 
of mine, and I think has merit. The song was 
never in print, which I think is so much in your 
favour. The more original good poetry your 
collection contains, it certainly has so much the 
more merit. 

SONG.— BY GAVIN TURN3ULL> 

Oh, condescend, dear charming maid, 

My wretched state to view ; 
A tender swain, to love betray'd, 

And sad despair, by you. 

While here, all melancholy, 

My passion I deplore. 
Yet, urg'd by stern, resistless fate, 

I love thee more and more. 

I heard of love, and with disdain 

The urchin's power denied. 
I laugh'd at every lover's pain, 

And mock'd them when they sigh'd. 

iJut how my state is alter'd I 

Those happy days are o'er; 
For all thy unrelenting hate, 

I love thee more and more. 

Oh, yield, illustrious beauty, yield ! 

No longer let me mourn ; 
And though victorious in the field, 

Thy captive do not scorn. 

liSt generous pity warm thee, 

My wonted peace restore ; 
And grateful I shall bless thee still. 

And love thee more and more. 

The following address of Turnbull's to the 
Nightingale will suit as an English song to the 
air "There was a lass, and she was fair." By 
Ihe bye, Turnbull has a great many songs in 
MS., which I can command, if you like his 
Dttanner. Possibly, as he is an old friend of 
mine, I may be prejudiced in his favour ; but I 
like some of his pieces very much. 

THE NIGHTINGALE. 

Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove, 
That ever tried the plaintive strain, 



SongCCXIII. 

Q&vlu Turnbull was the author of a now forgotten 



Awake thy tender tale of love, 
And soothe a poor foisaken swam. 

For though the muses deign to aid 
And teach him smoothly to complain, 

Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid. 
Is deaf to her forsaken swain. 

All day, with fashion's gaudy sons, 
In sport she wanders o'er the plain : 

Their tales approves, and still she shunn 
The notes of her forsaken swain. 

When evening shades obscure the sky, 
And bring the solemn hours again, 

Begin, s^veet bird, thy melody, 
And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 

I shall just transcribe another of TurnbulFft 
which would go charmingly to " Lewie Gordon.* 

LAURA. 

Let me wander where I will, 
By shady wood, or wmding r.ill ; 
Where the sweetest May-born flowers 
Paint the meadows, deck the bowers ; 
Where ihe linnet's early song 
Echoes sweet the woods among : 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 

If at rosy dawn I choose 
To indulge the smiling muse ; 
If I court some cool retreat, 
To avoid the noontide heat ; 
If beneath the moon's pale ray; 
Thro' unfrequented wilds I stray ; 
Let me wander where 1 will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 

When at night the drowsy god 
Waves his sleep-compelling rod. 
And to fancy's wakeful eyes 
Bids celestial visions rise. 
While with boundless joy I rove 
Thro' the fairy land of love ; 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 

The rest of your letter I shall answer at somi 
other opportunity. R. B. 



ccLxxvni. 

TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ., 

WITH A PAKCEL. 

[The collection of songs alluded to in this letter, ar« 
only known to the curious in loose loi e : they 



volume, published at Glasgow, m 1788, un, er t^e title O 
" Poetical Essays." 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



471 



yrj>:t«d >y an obscure bookseller, but not before death had 
warned him from the indignation of Burns.] 



Sir. 



Diimfnes, \_December, 1793.] 



'Ti6 said fhat we take the greatest liberties 
irith 3ur greatest friends, and I pay myself a 
rery high compliment in the manner in which I 
Am going to apply the remark. 1 have owed 
f ou money longer than ever I owed it to any 
oaa. Here is Kerr's account, and here are the 
six guineas ; and now I don't owe a shilling to 

man — or woman either. But for these d d 

dirty, dog's-ear'd little pages,' I had done my- 
Belf the honour to have waited on you long ago. 
Independent of the obligations your hospitality 
kas laid me under, the consciousness of your 
ruperiority in the rank of man and gentleman, 
if itself was fully as much as I could ever make 
lead against ; but to owe you money too, was 
uore tha,n I could face. 

I think I once mentioned something to you 
f a collection of Scots songs I have for some 
ears been making : I send you a perusal of 
rhat I have got together. I could not conve- 
uently spare them above five or six days, and 
)uve or six glances of them will probably more 
than suffice you. When you are tired of them, 
please leave them with Mr. Clint, of the King's 
Arms. There is not another copy of the col- 
lection in the wo.'ld ; and I should be sorry that 
%ny unfortunate nej^^igence should deprive me 
of what has cost m^- a ^oud deal of pains. 
I hasre i,^e k^w>uv to be, &c. 
KB. 



CCLXXIX. 



TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ., 

DRUMLANRIG. 

[These words, thrown y.nto the form of a note, ce 
•opied from a blank leaf of the poet's works, published in 
h^o voluraefe, sraall octavo, in 1793.] 

Dumfries, 1793. 
Will Mr. M'Murdo do me the favour to accept 
of these volumes -, a trifling but sincere mark 
of the Tery high respect I bear for his worth as 
a man, his manners as a gentleman, and his 
kindness cs a friend. However inferior now, or 
nfterwards, I may rank as a poet; one honest 
irtue to which few poets can putena, I trust 



I shall ever claim as mine : — to no man, wtiat 
ever his station in life, or his power to serv« 
me, have I ever paid a compliment at the 
expense of truth. 

The Autuok. 



CCLXXX. 



TO CAPTAIN 



[This excellent letter, obtained from Stewari of Dal 
guise, is copied from my kind friend Chambers's collffc- 
tion of Scottish songs.] 



Sir, 



Dumfries, 6ih December, 1793. 



K Heottish Bank notea. 



Heated as I was with wine yesternight, I 
was perhaps rather seemingly impertinent in 
my anxious wish to be honoured with your ac- 
quaintance. You will forgive it: it wus the 
impulse of heart-felt respect. " He is the fa- 
ther of the Scottish county reform, and is a 
man who does honour to the business, at the 
same time that the business does honour to him," 
said my worthy friend Glenriddel to somebody 
by me who was talking of your coming to thi? 
county with your corps. "Then," I said, "1 
have a woman's longing to take him by the hand, 
and say to him, 'Sir, I honour you as a man 
to whom the interests of humanity are dear, and 
as a patriot to whom the rights of your country 
are sacred.' " 

In times like these, Sir, when our commoners 
are barely able by the glimmer of their own 
twilight understandings to scrawl a frank, and 
when lords are what gentlemen would be 
ashamed to be, to whom shall a sinking coun- 
try call for help? To the independent country 
\ gentleman. To him who has too deep a stake 
j in his country not to be in earnest for her wel- 
1 fare , and who in the honest pride of man can 
[ view with equal contempt the insolence of ofiicft 
and the allurements of corruption. 

I mentioned to you a Scots ode or song Ihaa 
lately composed, and which I think has some 
merit. Allow me to enclose it. When I fall 
in with you at the theatre, I shall be glad to 
have your opinion of it. Accept of it. Sir, 6,3 
a very humble but most sincere tribute of ta 
spect from a man, who, dear as he prizes poetia 
fame, yet holds dearer an independent mind. 
I have the honour to be, 

a B 



474 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



CCLXXXI. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL, 

Who was about to bespeak a Play one evening at 
the Dumfries Theatre. 

[This cJever lady, to whom Burns so happily applies 
Hie words of Thomson, died in the year 1820, at Hampton 
Court.] 

I AM thinking to send my " Address" to some 
psriodical publication, but it has not yet got 
your sanction, so pray look over it. 

As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of you, 
my dear madam, to give us, " The Wonder, a 
Woman keeps a Secret!" to which please add, 
" The Spoilt Child " — you will highly oblige me 
by so doing. 

Ah, what an enviable creature you are ! 
There now, this cursed, gloomy, blue-devil day, 
you are going to a T)arty of choice spirits — 
'' *.o pl^j the „.iape„ 
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form 
Those rapid pictures, assembled train 
Of fleet ideas, never join'd before, 
Where lively wit excites to gay surprise ; 
Or folly-painting humour^ grave himself, 
Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve." 

Thomson. 

But as you rejoice with them that do rejoice, 
do also remember to weep with them that weep, 
and pity your melancholy friend. 

R. B. 



CCLXXXII. • 

TO A LADY. 

IN FAVOUR OF A PLAYEE's BENEFIT. 

[The name of the lady to whom this letter is addressed, 
has not transpired.] 

Dumfries, 1794. 
Madam, 

You were so very good as to promise me to 
honour my friend with your presence on his 
benefit night. That night is fixed for Friday 
first: the play a most interesting one! " The 
Way to Keep Him." I have the pleasure to 
know Mr. G. well. His merit as an actor is 
generally acknowledged. ' He has genius and 
worth which would do honour to patronage: he 
is a poor and modest man ; claims which from 
their very silence have the more forcible power 
an the generous heart. Alas, for pity ! that 
from the indolence of those who have the good 
wJiings of this life in their gift, too often does 
brazen-fronted importunity snatch that boon. 



the righful due of retiring, humble want! 0! 
all the qualities we assign to the author and 
director of nature, by far the most enviable is— « 
to be able "to wipe away all tears from all eyes. 
what insignificant, sordid wretches are they, 
however chance may have loaded them with 
wealth, who go to their graves, to their magnifi- 
cent mausoleums, with hardly the consciousneal 
of having made one poor honest heart happy I 

But I crave your pardon, Madam ; I came t« 
beg, not to preach. R. B. 



CCLXXXIII. 



TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN, 

With a Copy of Bruce^s Address to his Troops at 

Banmcklnrn. 

[This fantastic Earl of Buchan died a few years ago : 
when he was put into the family burial-ground, at Dry- 
burgh, his head was laid the wrong way, which Sir 
Walter Scott said was little matter, as it had never been 
quite right in his lifetime.] 

Dumfries, 12th January, 1794. 
My Lord, 

Will your lordship allow me to present you 
with the enclosed little composition of mine, aa 
a small tribute of gratitude for the acquaintance 
with which you have been pleased to honour me? 
Independent of my enthusiasm as a Scotsman, 
I have rarely met with anything in history 
which interests my feelings as a man, equal with 
the story of Bannockburn. On the one hand, a 
cruel, but able usurper, leading on the finest 
army in Europe to extinguish the last spark of 
freedom among a greatly-daring and greatly-in- 
jured people ; on the other hand, the despe- 
rate relics of a gallant nation, devoting them- 
selves to rescue their bleeding country, or perish 
with her. 

Liberty ! thou art a prize truly and indeed 
invaluable I for never canst thou be too deaiJy 
bought I 

If my little ode has the honour cf your loid- 
ship's approbation, it will gratify my highest am» 
bition. 

I have the honour to be, &c. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



4/9 



CCLXXXIV. 
TO CAPTAIN MILLER, 

D4LSWINT0N. 

iCiptiiL Mil.er, of Dalswinton, eat in the House of 
L'^mrj'.as for the Dumfries district of boroughs. Dal- 
l«rj:',D2 has passed from the family to ray friend James 
^'A. pine Lecy, Esq.] 

>-KAIl Sir, 
Teb following ode is on a subject ■vvMch I 
know j-QU by no means regard with indifference. 
Oh, Liberty, 

" Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay, 
Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day." 

Addison. 

It does me so much good to meet with a man 
whose honest bosom glows with the generous 
enthusiasm, the heroic daring of liberty, that I 
c^uld »?ot, fc'bear sending y^n a -^omp'^sHioi of 
my own on tne suoject, which I really thinK is 
in my best manner. 

I have the honour to be, 

Dear Sir, &c. 

R. B. 



CCLXXXV. 

To MRS. RIDDEL. 

[The dragon guarding the Hesperian fruit, was simply 
a military officer, who, with the courtesy of those wnose 
trade is arras, paid attention to the lady.] 

Dear Madam, 

I MEANT to have called on you yesternight, 
Int as I edged up to your box-door, the first 
object which greeted my view, was one of those 
lobster-coated puppies, sitting like another dra- 
gon, guarding the Hesperian fruit. On the con- 
ditions and capitulations you so obligingly offer, 
T shall certainly make my weather-beaten rustic 
phii a part of your box-furniture on Tuesday ; 
when we may arrange the business of the visit. 

Among the profusion of idle compliments, 
which in^idiras craft, or unmeaning folly, in- 
cessantly offer at your shrine — a shrine, how far 
exalted above such adoration — permit me, were 
it but for rarity's sake, to pay you the honest 
tribute of a warm heart and an independent 
mind ; anJ to assure you, that I am, thou most 
amiable and most accomplished of thy sex, with 
the most respectful esteem, and fervent regard, 
Sii>ue, &o. R. B. 



CCLXXXVI. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

rThe patient sons of order and prudence seem oftei 
t> have stirred the poet to such invectives as thia Jett*- 
exhibits.] 

I WILL wait on you, my ever-valued friend, 
but whether in the morning I am not sa?«. 
Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue bu- 
siness, and may probably keep me employed 
with my pen until lioon. Fine employment for 
a poet's pen ! There is a species of the human 
genus that I call the gin-horse class : what en- 
viable dogs they are ! Round, and round, and 
round they go, — Mundell's ox that drives hia 
cotton-mill is their exact prototype — without 
an idea or wish beyond their circle ; fat, sleek, 
stupid, patient, quiet, and contented ; while 
hero \ sit al^oip;eth«T N'^-^era-^'^ris^ a '^-mu''^ 
melange of fretfulness and melancholy ; not 
enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor 
of the other to repose me in torpor, my soul 
flouncing and fluttering round her tenement, like 
a wild finch, caught amid the horrors of winter, 
and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am per- 
suaded that it was of me the Hebrew sage 
prophesied, when he foretold — "And behold, 
on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it 
shall not prosper !" If my resentment is awaked, 
it is sure to be where it dare not squeak : and 
if * * 4fr * * 

Pray tha^ wisdom and bliss be more frequent 
visiters of R. B. 



CCLXXXVII. 

TO MRS. RIDDEi.. 

[The bard often offended and often appeased this whinir 
sical but very clever lady.] 

I HAVE this moment got the song from Pyme, 
and I am sorry to see that he has spoilt it a 
good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how I 
lend him anything again. 

I have sent you " Werter," truly happy to 
have any the smallest opportunity of cbliging 
you. 

'Tis true. Madam, I saw you once since I wai 
at Woodlea ; and that once froze the very life- 
blood of my heart. Your reception of me wa« 
such, that a wretch meeting the eye of his judge, 
about to pronounce sentence cf death on him 



louli only have envied my feelings and situa- 
tion. But I liate the theme, and never more 
■shall write or speak on it. 

One thing I shall proudly say, that I can pay 
Mrs 11. a higher tribute of esteem, and appre- 
ciate her amiable worth more truly, than any 
man whom I have seen approach her. 

R. B. 



CCLXXXVIII. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

[Burns often complained in company, and sometimes 
u his letters, of the caprice of Mrs. Riddel.] 

I HAVE often told you, my dear friend, that 
you had a spice of caprice in your composition, 
and you have as often disavowed it ; even per- 
haps while your opinions were, at the moment, 
irrefragably proving it. Conld any thine/ estrange 
me from a friend such as you ? — No ! To-morrow 
I shall have the honour of waiting on you. 

Farewell, thou first of friends, and most 
accomplished of women ; even with all thy little 
caprices ! R. B. 



COLXXXIX. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

[The offended lady was soothed by this submissive let 
ter, and the bard was re-established in her good graces.] 

Madam, 

1 RETURN your common-place book. I have 
perused it with much pleasure, and would have 
continued my criticisms, but as it seems the 
critic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures 
must lose their value. 

If it is true that " offences come only from 
the heart," before you I am guiltless. To ad- 
mire, esteem, and prize you as the most accom- 
plished of women, and the first of friends — ^if 
these are crimes, I am the most offending thing 
liiv?. 

la a face where I used to meet the kind 
eomplacency of friendly confidence, now to find 
cold neglect, and contemptuous scorn — is a 
wrench that my' heart can ill bear. It is, how- 
ever, some kind of miserable good luck, and 
while de kaut-en-bas rigour may depress an 
Unoffending wretch to the ground, it has a ten- 
dency to rouse a stubborn something in his 
•osont which, though it cannot heal the wounds 



of his soul, is at least an opiate to blunt theil 
poignancy. 

With the profoundest respect for your abili- 
ties ; the most sincere esteem and ardent regard 
for your gentle heart and amiable manners; 
and the most fervent wish and prayer for youT 
welfare, peace, and bliss, I have the honouj 
to be, 

Madam, 
Your most devoted humble servant, 

R. B. 



ccxc. 

TO JOHN SYME, ESQ. 

[John Syme, of the starap-office,was the companion ai 
well as comrade in arms, of Burns: he was a well-in- 
formed gentleman, loved witty company, and sinned ia 
rhyme now and then : his epigrams were often happy.] 

You know that among other high dignities, 
you have the honour to be my supreme court 
of critical judicature, from which there is no 
appeal. I enclose you a song which I composed 
since I saw you, and I am going to give you 
the history of it. Do you know that among 
much that I admire in «the characters and man- 
ners of those great folks whom I have now the 
honour to call my acquaintances, the Oswald 
family, there is nothing charms me more than 
Mr. Oswald's unconcealable attachment to that 
incomparable woman. Did you ever, my dear 
Syme, meet with a man who owed more to the 
Divine Giver of all good things than Mr. 0. ? 
A fine fortune ; a pleasing exterior ; self-evident 
amiable dispositions, and an ingenuous upright 
mind, and that informed, too, much beyond the 
usual run of young fellows of his rank and for- 
tune : and to all this, such a woman ! — but of 
her I shall say nothing at all, in despair of 
saying anything adequate : in my song I have 
endeavoured to do justice to what would be 
his feelings, on seeing, in the scene I have 
drawn, the habitation of his Lucy. As I am a 
good deal pleased with my performance, I, in 
my first fervour, thought of sending it to Mrs. 
Oswald, but on second thoughts, perhaps what 
I offer as the honest incense of genuine respect, 
might, from the well-known character of poverty 
and poetry, be construed into some modification 
or other of that servility which my s Dul abhora 

R. B 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



47t 



CJCXCI. 



TO MISS 



([Borna, on other occasions than this, recalled both his 
•ttsrs ana verses : it is to be regrretted that he did not 
•cnll more of both.] 

Dumfries, 1794. 
Madam, 

NoTHixG short of a kind of absolute necessity 
c.onld have made me trouble you -with this let- 
fcrr. Except my ardent and just esteem for 
your sense, taste, and worth, every sentiment 
arising in my breast, as I put pen to paper to 
you, is painful. The scenes I have passed with 
the ^riend of my soul and his amiable con- 
nexi-^ns ! the wrench at my heart to think that 
he is gone, for ever gone from me, never more 
to meet in the wanderings of a weary world! 
and the cutting reflection of all, that I had 
most unfortunately, though most undeservedly, 
lost the confidence of that soul of worth, ere it 
took its flight ! 

These, Madam, are sensations of no ordinary 
anguish. — However, you also may be ofi"ended 
with some imputed improprieties of mine ; sen- 
sibility you know I possess, and sincerity none 
will deny me. 

To oppose those prejudices which have been 
raised against me, is rjt the business of this 
letter. Indeed it is a var^are I know not how 
to wage. The powprs of positive vice I can 
\n some degree calculate, and against direct 
malevolence I can be on my guard ; but who 
can estimate the fatuity of giddy caprice, or 
ward off the unthinking mischief of precipitate 
folly ? 

I have a favour to request of you. Madam, 
and of your sister Mrs. — — , through your 
means. You know that, at the wish of my late 
friend, I made a collection of all my trifles in 
verse which I had ever written. They are many 
of ..henc local, some of them puerile and silly; 
Ml 1 S.11 of thorn unfit for the public eye. As I 
havp gome little fame at stake, a fame that I 
trust may live when the hate of those who 
'* wai u for my halting," and the contumelious 
B"De-?r 0/ those whom accident has made my su- 
periors, will, with themselves, be gone to the 
region! of oblivion ; I am uneasy now for the 

fate of those manuscripts — Will Mrs. have 

the goodness to destroy them, or return them 
to me ? As a pie Ige of friendship they were be- 
llowed ; and that circumstance indeed was all 
tieir merit. Most unhappily for me, that merit 



they no longer possess ; and 1 hope that Mra. 

's goodness, which I well know, and evel 

will revere, will not ref'ise this favour tt a 
man whom she once held in some degree ^^ 
estimation. 

With the sircerest esteem, 

I have the honour to be, 

Mad&Ti, ^0. 
Jl B 



CCXCII. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

[The religious feeling of Burns was sometimes blunted 
but at times it burst out, as in this letter, with e uquenol 
and fervour, mingled with fear.] 

25 ^A February, 1794 

Canst thou minister to a mind diseased* 
Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tost 
on a sea of troubles, without one friendly stat 
to guide her course, and dreading that the next 
surge may overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to 
a frame tremblingly alive as the tortures of 
suspense, the stability and hardihood of the 
rock that braves the blast? If thou canst 
not do the least of these, why wouldst thou 
disturb me in my miseries, with thy inquiries 
after me ? 

•X- •?{■ * * * * 

For these two months I have not been abl« 
to lift a pen. My constitution and frame were, 
ah origine, blasted with a deep incurable taint 
of hypochondria, which poisons my existence 
Of late a number of domestic vexations, and 
some pecuniary share in the ruin of these cursed 
times ; losses which, though trifling, were yet 
what I could ill bear, have so irritated me, that 
my feelings at times could only be envied by a 
reprobate spirit listening to the sentence that 
dooms it to perdition. 

Are you deep in the language of consoli.,tion ? 
I have exhausted in reflection every topic of 
comfort. A heart at ease would have been 
charmed with my sentiments and reasonings; 
but as to myself I was like Judas Iscarioi 
preaching the gospel ; he might melt and mould 
the hearts of those around him, but his own 
kept its native incorrigibility. 

Still there are two great pillars that bear ua 
up, amid the wreck of misfortune and misery. 
The ONE is composed of the different moditica 
tions of a certain noble stubborn something i« 
man, known by the names of courage, fortitude. 



178 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



magnanimity. The othee is made up of those 
feelings and sentiments, which, however the 
sceptic may deny them, or the enthusiast disfi' 
^ure them, are yet, I am convinced, original 
and component parts of the human soul ; those 
tenses of the mind, if I may be allowed the ex- 
pression, which connect us with, and link us to, 
those awful, olfcacure realities — an all-powerful, 
uD.^ equally beneficent God ; and a world to 
flome, beyond death and the grave. The first 
gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope 
beams on the field : the last pours the balm of 
comfort into the woun(fs which time can never 
cure. 

I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, 
that you and I ever talked on the subject of re- 
ligion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as 
the trick of the crafty few, to lead the undis- 
cerning many ; or at most as an uncertain ob- 
scurity, which mankind can never know any- 
thing of, and with which they are fools if they 
give themselves much to do. Nor would I 
quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more 
than I would for his want of a musical ear. I 
would regret that he was shut out from what, 
to me and to others, were such superlative 
sources of enjoyment. It is in this point of 
view, and for this reason, that I will deeply 
imbue the mind of every child of mine with re- 
ligion. If my son showld happen to be a man 
of feeling, sentiment, and taste, I shall thus 
add largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter 
myself that this sweet little fellow, who is just 
now running about my desk, will be a man of 
a melting, ardent, glowing heart ; and an ima- 
gination, delighted with the painter, and rapt 
with the poet. Let me figure him wandering 
out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy 
gales, and enjoy the growing luxuriance of 
Spring ; himself the while in the blooming youth 
of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and 
through nature up to nature's God. His soul, 
by swift delighting degrees, is rapt above this 
nablunary sphere, until he can be silent no 
Unger, and bursts out into the glorious enthusi- 
|,«m of Thomson, 

'■ T.'.*se, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
Are but the varied God. — The rolling year 
Is full of thee." 

And so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that 
charming hymn. These are no ideal pleasures, 
they are real delights ; and I ask what of the 
dolights among the sons o* men are superior, 



not to say equal to them ? And they have thi. 
precious, vast addition, that conscious virtu€ 
stamps them for her own ; and lays hold oq 
them to bring herself into the presence of n 
witnessing, judging, and approving God. 

R. B 



CCXCIII 

TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

[The original letter is in the possession of the Hon 
Mrs. Halland, of Poynings : it is undated, but from a 
memorandum on the back it appears to have been written 
in May, 1794. J 

May, 1794. 
My Loed, 

When you cast your eye on the name at the 
bottom of this letter, and on the title-page of 
the book I do myself the honour to send your 
lordship, a more pleasurable feeling than my 
vanity tells me that it must be a name not en- 
tirely unknown to you. The generous patronage 
of your late illustrious brother found me in the 
lowest obscurity : he introduced my rustic muse 
to the partiality of my country ; and to him I 
owe all. My sense of his goodness, and the 
anguish of my soul at losing my truly noble 
protector and friend, I have endeavoured to 
express in a poem to his memory, which I havd 
now published. This edition is just from the 
press ; and in my gratitude to the dead, and 
my respect for the living (fame belies you, my 
Icrd, if you possess not the same dignity of man, 
which was your noble brother's characteristio 
feature), I had destined a copy for the Earl of 
Glencairn. I learnt just now that you are in 
town : — allow me to present it you. 

I know, my lord, such is the vile, venal conta* 
gion which pervades the world of letters, that 
professions of. respect from an author, particu* 
larly from a poet, to a lord, are more than sus- 
picious. I claim my by-past conduct, and my 
feelings at this moment, as exceptions to t&a 
too just conclusion. Exalted as are the honcurs 
of your lordship's name, and unnoted as is the 
obscurity of mine ; with the uprightness of an 
honest man, I come before your lordship with 
an ofi^ering, however humble, 'tis all I have to 
give, of my grateful respect ; and to beg of 
you, my lord, — 'tis all I have to ask of you,— < 
that you will do me the honour to accept of it 
I have the honour to be, 

R. B, 



OF ROBEUT BURNS. 



471 



CCXCIV. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

fPhe correspondence between tli<^ poet and the musi- 
cian was intsrrapted in spring, but in summer and au- 
hiatuc the a >r.j-strains were renewed.] 

May, 1794. 
My de vr Sir, 

I return you the plates, with -which I am 
highly pleased; I would humbly propose, in- 
stead of the younker knitting stockings, to put 
a stock and horn into his hands. A Mend of 
mine, who is positively the ablest judge on the 
Bubject I have ever met with, and, though an 
unknown, is yet a superior artist with the burin, 
is quite charmed with Allan's manner. I got 
him a peep of the "Gentle Shepherd;" and he 
pronounces Allan a most original artist of great 
excellence. 

For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's choosing 
*iiy favourite poem for his subject, to be one of 
the highest compliments I have ever received. 

I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped up 
m France, as it will put an entire stop to our 
work. Now, and for six or seven months, I 
shall be quite in song, as you shall see by and 
bye. I got an air, pretty enough, composed by 
Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she 
calls "The Banks of Cree." Cree is a beauti- 
ful romantic stream; and, as her ladyship is a 
particular friend of mine, I have written the 
following song to it. 

Here is the glen and here the bower.' 

E. B. 



ccxcv. 

rO DAVID M'CULLOCH, ESQ. 

■ The enilorsement on the back of the original letter 
ihcws in what far lands it has travelled: — " Given by Da- 
vid M'CuIioch, Penang 1810. A. Fraser." <' Received, 
I -ill. December, 1823, in Calcutta, from Captain Frazer's 
w-Cow, bf me Thomas Rankine." "Transmitted to 
A.rcnina d V \\:<i, E.sq., London, March 27tli, 1824, from 
Bombay."] 

Dumfries, 21st June, 1794. 

My dear Sir, 

My long-projected journey through your 

•ountry is at last fixed : and on Wednesday next, 

tf you liave nothing of more importance to do, 

5ike a saunter down to Gatehouse about two or 



three o'clock, I shall be happy to take a draught 
of M'Kune's best with you. Collector Syme 
will be at Glens about that time, and will meet 
us about dish-of-tea hour. Syme goes also to 
Kerroughtree, and let me remind you <jf your 
kind promise to accompany me there ; I wiU 
need all the friends I can muster, for I am in- 
deed ill at ease whenever I approach your ho- 
nourables and right honourables. 

Yours sincerely, 

R. B. 



1 SonJk CCXXIII. 



CCXCVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[Castle Douglas is a thriving Galloway village : it waa 
in other days called " The Carlinwark," but accepted its 
present proud name from an opulent family of mercantile 
Douglasses, well known in Scotland, England, and 
America.] 

Castle Douglas, 25th June, 1794. 

Here, in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, 
am I set by myself, to amuse my brooding fancy 
as I may. — Solitary confinement, you know, ia 
Howard's favourite idea of reclaiming sinners ; 
so let me consider by what fatality it happens 
that I have so long been so exceeding sinful as to 
neglect the correspondence of the most valued 
friend I have on earth. To tell you. that I have 
been in poor health will not be excuse enough, 
though it is true. I am afraid that I am about 
to suffer for the follies of my youth. My medi- 
cal friends threaten me with a flying gout ; but 
I trust they are mistaken. 

I am just going to trouble your critical pa- 
tience with the first sketch of a stanza I have 
been framing as I passed along the road. The 
subject is Liberty: you know, my honoured 
friend, how dear the theme is to me. 1 design 
it as an irregular ode for General Washington's 
birth-day. After having mentioned the dege- 
neracy of other kingdoms, I come to Scotlat?J 
thus : — 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 
Thee, famed for martial deed, and sacred scx^ij, 

T.o thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace 
lies! 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of dea "h ! 

Ye babbling winds in silence sweep, 
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep." 



180 



GENEKAL CORRESPONDENCE 



}fith additions of 

That arm which nerved with thundering fate, 
Braved usurpation's boldest daring ! 

One quenched in darkness like the sinking star, 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, power- 
less age. 

Tou will probably have another scrawl from 
aae in a stage or two. R. B. 



ccxcvn. 

TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON. 

[The anxiety of Burns about the accuracy of his poetry 
while in the press, was great : he found full employment 
for months in correcting a new edition of his poems.] 

Dumfries^ 1794. 
Mt dear Feiend, 

You should have heard from me long ago ; 
but over and above some vexatious share in the 
pecuniary losses of these accursed times, I have 
all this winter been plagued with low spirits and 
Dlue devils, so that / have almost hung my harp 
on the willow-trees. 

I am just now busy correcting a new edition 
of my poems, and this, with my ordinary busi- 
ness, finds me in full employment. 

I send you by my friend Mr. Wallace forty- 
one songs for your fifth volume ; if we cannot 
finish it in any other way, what would you think 
of Scots words to some beautiful Irish airs? 
In the mean time, at your leisure, give a copy 
of the Museum to my worthy friend, Mr. Peter 
Hill, bookseller, tobind-for me, interleaved with 
blank leaves, exactly as he did the Laird of 
Glenriddel's, that I may insert every anecdote 
I can learn, together with my own criticisms 
and remarks on the songs. A copy of this kind 
I shall leave with you, the editor, to publish at 
some after period, by way of making the Mu- 
seum a book famous to the end of time, and 
you renowned for ever. 

I have got an Highland dirk, for which I 
Jiave great veneration ; as it once was the dirk 
of Lord Balmerino. It fell into bad hands, who 
stripped it of the silver mounting, as well as 
the knife and fork. I have some thoughts of 
Bending it to your care, to get it mounted anew. 

Thank you for the copies of my Volunteer 
Ballad. — Our friend Clarke has done indeed well ' 
tis chaste and beautiful. I have not met with 
fcaything that has pleased me so much. You 



know I am no connoisseur: but that I am 
amateur — will be allowed me. 

B B 



CCXCVIII. 
TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The blank in this letter could be filled up wiOiOu ' 
writing treason : but nothing has been omittad of aB 
original nature.] 

July, 1794. 

Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is your 
work to be at a dead stop, until the allies set 
our modern Orpheus at liberty from the sava.ge 
thraldom of democrat discords"? Alas the day \ 
And woe is me ! That auspicious period, preg- 
nant with the happiness of millions. • • » « 

I have presented a copy of your songs to the 
daughter of a much-valued and much-honoured 
friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintray. I 
wrote on the blank side of the title-page th« 
following aadress to the young lady : 

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, 

&C.1 

R. B 



CCXCIX. 
TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Thomson says to Burns, "You have anticipatec" my 
opinion of ' O'er the seas and far away.' " Yet some o. 
the verses are original and touching.] 

30^A August, 1794. 

The last evening, as I was straying out, anc 
thinking of " O'er the hills and far away," i 
spun the following stanza for it ; but whethe 
my spinning will deserve to be laid up in store, 
like the precious thread of the silk-worm, or 
brushed to the devil, like the vile manufacture 
of the spider, I leave, my dear Sir, to your 
usual candid criticism. I was pleased with 
several lines in it at first, but I own that nrw i^ 
appears rather a flimsy business. 

This is just a haaty sketch, until I see whether 
it be worth a critique. We have many sailor 
songs, but as far as I at present recollect, they 
are mostly the effusions of the jovial sailor, not 
the wailings of his love-lorn mistress. I must 
here make one sweet exception — " Sweet Anni« 
frae the sea-beach came." Now for the song:— 
How can my poor heart be glad.2 



Poem CCXXIX. 



2 Song CCXXIV. 



OF ROBERT JURNS. 



481 



I give you leave to abuse this song, but do it 
►n the spirit of Cliristian meekness. 

R. B. 



ccc. 

T M R. T H M S N. 

The stream on the banks of which this song is sup- 
pv^sed to be sung, is known by three names, Cairn, Dal- 
gonar, and Cluden. It rises under the name of Cairn, 
runs through a wild country, undei the tiame of Dalgo- 
nar, affording fine trout-fishing as M'eli as fine scenes, 
and under that of Cluden it all but washes the walls of 
•4;ncluden College, and then unites with the Nith.] 

Sept. 1794. 

1 SHALL withdraw mj " On the seas and far 
away" altogether : it is unequal, and unworthy 
the work. Making a poem is like begetting a 
Bon : you cannot know whether you have a wise 
man or a fool, until you produce him to the 
world to try him. 

For that reason I send you the offspring of 
my brain, abortions and all ; and, as such, pray 
look over them, and forgive them, and burn 
them. lam flattered at your adopting " Ca' 
the yowes to the knowes," as it was owing to 
me that ever it saw the light. About seven 
years ago I was well acquainted with a worthy 
little fellow of a clergyman, a Mr. Cluhie, who 
sang it charmingly; and, at my request, Mr. 
Clarke took it down from his singing. When I 
^ave it to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the 
song, and mended others, but still it will not do 
for you. In a solitary stroll which I took to- 
day, I tried my hand on a few pastoral lines, 
following up tie idea of the chorus, which I 
would preserve. Here it is, with all its crudi- 
ties and imperfections on its head. 

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, &c.' 

I shall give you my opinion of your other 
m«wly adopted songs my first scribbling fit. 

R. B. 



jCCCI. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Dr. Maxwell, whose skill called forth the praises oi 
the poet, had the honour of being named by Burke in the 
House of Commons : he shared in the French revolution. 



1 Song CCXXV 
31 



aSongCCXXVI. 



and narrowly escaped the gKillo*>^»ie, like ma ly other 
true friends of liberty.] 

Sept. 1794. 

Do you know a blackguard Irish song called 
"Onagh's Waterfall?" The air is charming, 
and I have often regretted the want of decent 
verses to it. It is too much, at least for my 
humble rustic muse, to expect that every efl'or) 
of hers shall have merit ; still I think that it is 
better to have mediocre verses to a favourite 
air, than none at all. On this principle I have 
all along proceeded in the Scots Musical Mu- 
seum ; and as that publication is at its last 
volume, I intend the following song, to the air 
above mentioned, for that work. 

If it does not suit you as an editor, you may 
be pleased to have verses to it that you can sin/ 
in the company of ladies. 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets.^ 

Not to compare small things with great, my 
taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of 
Prussia's taste in painting : we are told that he 
frequently admired what the connoisseurs ie- 
cried, and always without any hypocrisy con 
fessed his admiration. I am sensible that my 
taste in music must be inelegant and vulgar, 
because people of undisputed and cultivated 
taste can find no merit in my favourite tunes. 
Still, because I am cheaply pleas^ed, is that any 
reason why I should deny myself that pleasure? 
Many of our strathspeys, ancient and modern, 
give me most exquisite enjoyment, where you 
and other judges would probably be showing 
disgust. For instance, I am just now making 
verses for '* Rothemurche's rant," an air which 
puts me in raptures ; and, in fact, unless I be 
pleased with the tune, I never can make verses 
to it. Here I have Clarke on my side, who is a 
judge that I will pit against any of you. " Rothe- 
murche," he says, "is an air both original and 
beautiful ;" and, on his recommendation, I have 
taken the first part of the tune for a chorus, 
and the fourth or last part for the song. I am 
but two stanzas deep in the work, and poss bly 
you may think, and justly, that the poetry is as 
little worth your attention as the music 

[Here follow two stanzas of the song, beginning Laa- 
sie wi' the lint-white locks." Song CCXXXIII.] 

I have begun anew, " Let me in this ae night '' 
Do you think that Ave ought to retain the old 
chorus? I think we must retain both the old 
chorus and the first stanza of the oM song. 



do not altogether like the third line of the first 
Btanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. I 
r-va iust three stanzas deep in it. Wouli you 
have the denouement to be successful or other- 
v^^ie ? — should she "let him in" or not? 

Did you not once propose " The sow's tail to 
Geordie" as an air for your work? I am quite 
delighted with it ; but I acknowledge that is no 
mark of its real excellence. I once set about 
verses for it, which I meant to be in the alter- 
nale way of a lover and his mistress chanting 
together. I have not the pleasure of knowing 
Mrs. Thomson's Christian name, and yours, I 
am afraid, is rather burlesque for sentiment, 
else I had meant to have made you the hero 
and heroine of the little piece. 

llow do you like the following epigram which 
I wrote the other day on a lovely young girl's 
recovery from a fever ? Doctor Maxwell was 
the physician who seemingly saved her from 
the grave ; and to him I address the following : 

TO DR. MAXWELL, 

-)\ MISS JESSIE STAIG's RECOVERY. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave. 

That merit I deny : 
You save fair Jessy from the grave ? — 

An angel could not die ! 

God grant you patience with this stupid 
epistle ! R. B. 



CCCII. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

»■ f he poet relates the history of several of his best 
.^ags i;i tills letter: the true old strain of '• Andro and 
.« catty gun" is the first of its kind.] 

l^th October, 1794. 
My dear Frihnd 
By this morning's post I have your list, and, 
m general 1 highly approve of it. I shall, at 
OBore liisure, give you a critique on the whole. 
Clarke goes to your town by to-day's fly, and I 
wish you would call on him and take his opinion 
in general : you know his taste is a standard. 
He will return here again in a week or two, so 
please do not miss asking for him. One thing I 
hope he will do — persuade you to adopt my fa- 
vourite '<Craigiebai'n-wood," in your selection: 
it is as great a favourite of his as of mine. The 
lady on wtom it was made is one of the finest 



women in Scotland ; and in fact (mtre nous) \t 
in a manner to me what Sterne's Eliza was tc 
him— a mistress, or friend, or what you will, in 
the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. (Now, 
don't put any of your squinting constructiona 
on this, or have any clishmaclaver about it 
among our acquaintances.) I assure you thai 
to my lovely friend you are indebted for many 
of your best songs of mine. Do you think that 
the sober, gin-horse routine of existence coul J 
inspire a man with life, and love, and JDy — 
could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him 
with pathos,- equal to the genius of your book ? 
No! no! Whenever I want to be more' than 
ordinary in song — to be in some degree equal to 
your diviner airs — do you imagine I fast and 
pray for the celestial emanation ? Tout au con- 
traire! I have a glorious recipe ; the very one 
that for his own use was • invented by the divi- 
nity of healing and poetry, when erst he p'ped 
to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a 
regimen of admiring a fine woman ; and in pro- 
portion to the adorability of her charms, in pro- 
portion you are delighted with my verses. The 
lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnas- 
sus, and the witchery of her smile the divinity 
of Helicon ! 

To descend to business : if you like my idea 
of '* When she cam ben she bobbit," the follow- 
ing stanzas of mine, altered a little from what 
they were formerly, when set to another air, 
may perhaps do instead of worse stanzas : — 

saw ye my dear, my Phely.' 

Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. *« The 
Posie" (in t' e Museum) is my composition ; the 
air was taken down from Mrs. Burns's voice. } 
is well known in the west country, but the old 
words are trash. By the bye, take a look at 
the tune again, and tell me if you do not thini 
it is the original from which *'Roslin Castle" 
is composed. The second part in particxila? 
for the first two or three bars, is exactly th« 
old air. " Strathallan's Lament" is mine ; tba 
music is by our right trusty and deservedly 
well-beloved Allan Masterton. " Donocht-Head' ' 
is not mine ; I would give ten pounds it were 
It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald, and 
came to the editor -of that paper with the New- 
castle post-mark on it. *' Whistle o'er the lave 
o't" is mine : the music said to be by a John 

1 Song CCXXVII 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



48S 



Bruce, a celebrated violin-plajer in Dumfries, 
about the beginning of this century. Tliis I 
know, Bruce, who was an honest man, though a 
red-wud Plighlandman, constantly claimed itj 
End by all the old musical people here is be- 
lieved to be the author of it. 

"Andrew and his cutty gun." The song to 
which this is set in the Museum is mine, and 
was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of 
Linirose, commonly and deservedly called the 
Flower of Strathmore. 

" How long and dreary is the night !" I met 
vrith some inch words in a collection of songs 
Bomewhere, which I altered and enlarged ; and 
to please you, and to suit your favourite air, I 
have taken a stride or two across my room, and 
have arranged it anew, as you will find on the 
other page. 

How long and dreary is the night, &c.^ 

Tell me how you like this. I differ from your 
idea of the expression of the tune. There is, 
to me, a great deal of tenderness in it. You 
cannot, in my opinion, dispense with a bass to 
your adderda airs. A lady of my acquaintance, 
a noted performer, plays and sings at the same 
time so charmingly, that I shall never bear to 
Bee any of her songs sent into the world, as 
naked as Mr. What-d'ye-call-um has done in his 
London collection.^ 

These English songs gravel me to death. I 
have not that command of the language that I 
have of my native tongue. I have been at 
*' Duncan Gray," to dress it in English, but all 
I can do is deplorably stupid. For instance : — 

Let not woman e'er complain, &c.3 

Since the above, I have been out in the coun- 
try, taking a dinner with a friend, where I met 
v^ith a lady whom I mentioned in the second 
page in this odds-and-ends of a letter. As 
Dsual, 1 got into song ; and returning home I 
tomposed the following : 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature 
&c.< 

If you honour my verses by setting the air to 
ihem, I will vamp np the old song, and make it 
English enough to be understood. 

I enclose you a musical curiosity, an Eastln- 
iian air, which you would swear was a Scottish 

••8<wgCCXXVIII. 

« Mr. Ritsrm, w^lioee collection of Scottish Bongs w^aa 
«bli%h« I th g year. 



one. I know the authenticity of it, as the gen 
tleman who brought it over is a particular aC' 
quaintance of mine. Do preserve me the cop^ 
I send you, as it is the only one I have. Clarki 
has set a bass to it, and I intend putting it into 
the Musical Museum. Here follow the verses 1 
intend for it. 

But lately seen in gladsome green, &6.* 

I would be obliged to you if yo i would pro 
cure me a sight of Ritson's collection of Engliflb 
songs, which you mention in your letter. I will 
thank you for another information, and that aa 
speedily as you please.: whether this miserable 
drawling hotchpotch epistle has not completely 
tired vou of my correspondence ? 

VARIATION. 

Now to the streaming fountain, 

Or up the heathy mountain. 
The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly- wanton 
stray ; 

In twining hazel bowers, 

His lay the linnet pours: 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the da.p 

When frae my Chloris parted. 

Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted, 
The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark o 9* 
cast my sky. 

But when she charms my sight. 

In pride of beauty's light ; * 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
'Tis then, 'tis then I wake to life and jo;^ ; 

R. B. 



CCCIII. 
TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The presents made to the poet were mr from maaex 
ous : the book for which he expresses liis thanks, ^«« 
the work of the waspish Ritson.] 

November^ 1794, 

Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for ^-oui 
present; it is a book of the utmost importance 
to me. I have yesterday begun my anecdotea, 
&c., for your work. I intend drawing them uj 
in the form of a letter to you, which will sav« 



SSongCCXXIX. 4SongCCXXX. 

5 Song CCXVl. 



1-84 



GENERAL COKRESPONDENCE 



r:i9 from the tedious dul'i Vusiness of systematic 
;;nangemeDt. Indeed, as all 1 have to say con- 
sists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps 
:>f old songs, &c., it would be impossible to give 
tne work a beginning, a middle, and an end, 
which the critics insist to be absolutely necessary 
in a work. In my last, I told you my objections 
io the song you had selected for "My lodging 
is on the cold ground." On my visit the other 
day to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic name 
9i the lovely goddess of my inspiration), she 
suggested an idea, which I^ on my return from 
the visit, wrought into the following song. 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves.^ 

How do you like the simplicity and tenderness 
of this pastoral ? I think it pretty well. 

I like you for entering so candidly and so 
kindly into the story of "ma chere amie.'' I as- 
sure you I was never more in earnest in my life, 
than in the account of that affair which I sent 
you in my last. Conjugal love is a passion 
which I deeply feel, and highly venerate ; but, 
Bomehow, it does not make such a figure in poesy 
as that other species of the passion, 

<' Where love is liberty, and nature law." 
Musically speaking, the first is an instrument 
)f which the gamut is scanty and confined, but 
the tones inexpressibly sweet, while the last has 
powers equal to all the intellectual modulations 
of the human soul. Still, I am a very poet in 
my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and 
happiness of the beloved object is the first and 
inviolate sentiment that pervades my soul; and 
whatever pleasures I mightwish for, or whatever 
might be the raptures they would give me, yet, 
if they interfere with that first principle, it is 
having these pleasures at a dishonest price ; and 
justice forbids and generosity disdains the pur- 
chase. 

Pespairing of my own powers to give you 
variety enough in English songs, I have been 
turning over old collections, to pick out songs, of 
which the measure is something similar to what 
I want , and; with a little alteration, so as to 
suit ths rhythm of the air exactly, to give you 
them for your work. Where the songs have 
hitherto been but little noticed, nor have ever 
been set to music, I think the shift a fair one. 
A. song, which, under the same first verse, you 
vill find in Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, I 



have cut down for an English dress to youl 
"Dainty Davie/' as follows: — 

It was the charming month of May.2 

You may think meanly of this, but take a look 
at the bombast original, and you will be sur- 
prised that I have made so much of it. I have 
finished my song to " Rothemurche's rant," and 
you have Clarke to consult as to the set of tho 
air for singing. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, &c.^ 

This piece has at least the nterit of being a 
regular pastoral : the vernal morn, the summer 
noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter 
night, are regularly rounded. If you like it, 
well ; if not, I will insert it in the Museum. 

R. B 



* Song CCXXXI. 



2 Song CCXXXII. 



CCCIV. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Sir Walter Scott remarked, on the lyrics of Burns, 
" that at last the writing a series of songs for large mu- 
sical collections degenerated into a slavish labour which 
no talents could support,"] 

I AM out of temper that you should set so 
sweet, so tender an air, as " Deil tak the wars," 
to the foolish old verses. You talk of the silli- 
ness of "Saw ye my father?" — By heavens! 
the odds is gold to brass ! Besides, the old 
song, though now pretty well modernized into 
the Scottish language, is originally, and in the 
early editions, a bungling low imitation of the 
Scottish manner, by that genius Tom D'Urfey, 
so has no pretensions to be a Scottish produc- 
tion. There is a pretty English song by Sheri- 
dan, in the " Duenna," to this air, which ia ou$ 
of sight superior to D'Urfey's. It begins, 

"When sable night each drooping ;>lant restorinf?." 
The air, if I understand the expression of it 
properly, is the very native language of simpli- 
city, tenderness, and love. I have again gons 
gone over my song to the tune. 

Now for my English song to " Nancy's to th« 
greenwood," ^c. 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows,.* 

There is an air, " The Caledonian Hunt's De 
light," to which I wrote a song that you will find 
in Johnson, " Ye banks and braes o' bonnif 



3 Song CCXXXIII. 



4 Song CCXXXI V. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



48a 



Ooon :" this air I think might find a place 
wnongyour hundred, as Lear says of his knights. 
Do you know the history of the air ? It is cu- 
rious enough. A good many years ago, Mr. 
James Miller, writer in your good town, a gentle- 
man whom possibly you know, was in company 
with our friend Clarke ; and talking of Scottish 
music. Miller expressed an ardent ambition to 
be able to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, 
partly by way of joke, told him to keep to the 
black keys of the harpsichord, and preserve 
some kind of rhythm, and he would infallibly 
compose a Scots air. Certain it is that, in a 
few days, Mr. Miller produced the rudiments 
of an air, which Mr. Clarke, with some touches 
and corrections, fashioned into the tune in ques- 
tion. Ritson, you know, has the same story 
9f the black keys ; but this account which I have 
just given you, Mr. Clarke informed me of 
several years ago. Now, to show you how diffi- 
cult it is to trace the origin of our airs, I have 
heard it repeatedly asserted that this was an 
Irish air ; nay, I met with an Irish gentleman 
who affirmed he had heard it in Ireland among 
the old women ; while, on the other hand, a 
countess informed me, that the first person who 
introduced the air into this country, was a 
baronet's lady of her acquaintance, who took 
down the notes from an itinerant piper in the 
Isle of Man. How difficult, then, to ascertain 
the truth respecting our poesy and music ! I, 
myself, have lately seen a couple of ballads sung 
through the streets of Dumfries, with my name 
at the head of them as the author, though it 
was the first time I had ever seen them. 

I thank you for admitting " Craigieburn- 
wood ;" and I shall take care to furnish you 
with a new chorus. In fact, the chorus was 
not my work, but a part of some old verses to 
the air. If I can catch myself in a more than 
ordinarily propitious moment, I shall write a 
new '* Craigiebuvn-wood" altogether. My heart 
as much in the theme. 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the 
|fe^[uest; 'tis dunning your generosity; but in 
a moment when I had forgotten whether I was 
rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your 
Bongs. It wrings my honest pride to write you 
this ; but an ungracious request is doubly so 
by a tedious apology. To make you some 
amends, as soon as I have extracted the neces- 
lary information out o^ them, I will retarn you 
liitsoo'c volumes. 



The lady is not a little proud that she is t4 
make so distinguished a figure in your collec- 
tion, and I am not a little proud that I have it 
in my power to please her so much. Lucky i( 
is fur your patience that my paper is done, fof 
when I am in a scribbling humour, I &now iu-< 
when to give over. R. B. 



cccv. 

TO M R. T H M S N. 

[Willy and Phely, in one of the lyrics which this lat- 
ter contained, carry on the pleasant bandying of praise 
till compliments grow scarce, and the lovers are reduced 
to silence.] 

19th November, 1794. 

You see, my dear Sir, what a punctual cor- 
reBpondent I am ; though, indeed, you may thank 
yourself for the tedium of my letters, as you 
have so flattered me on my horsemanship with 
my favourite hobby, and have praised the 
grace of his ambling so much, that I am scarcely 
ever ofi^ his back. For instance, this morning, 
though a keen blowing frost, in my walk before 
breakfast, I finished my duet, which you were 
pleased to praise so much. Whether I have 
uniformly succeeded, I will not say ; but here 
it is for you, though it is not an hour old 

Philly, happy be the day.' 

Tell me honestly how you like it, and point out 
whatever you think faulty. 

I am much pleased with your idea of singing 
our somgs in alternate stanzas, and regret that 
you did not hint it to me sooner. In those that 
remain, I shall have it in my eye. I remember 
your objections to the name Philly, but it is the 
common abbreviation of Phillis. Sally, the only 
other name that suits, has to my ear a vul- 
garity about it, which unfits it for atiything 
except burlesque. The legion of Scottish poet 
asters of the day, whom your brother editc-r, 
Mr. Ritson, ranks with me as my coevals, liave 
always mistaken vulgarity for simplicity; whert- 
as, simplicity is as much eloignee frcci vulgaritj; 
on the one hand, as from aflfecte 1 point and 
puerile conceit on the other. 

I agree with you as to the air, " Craigieburn 
wood," that a chorus would, in some degree, 
spoil the effect, and shall certainly have nonu 



1 Song CCXXXV. 



186 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



'm my projected song to it. It is not, however, 
a case in point with " Eothemurche ;" there, 
as in "Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch," a chorus 
goes, to my taste, well enough. As to the 
chorus going first, that is the case with " Roy's 
Wife," as well as "Rothemurche." In fact, in 
the first part of both tunes, the rhythm is so 
peculiar and irregular, and on that irregularity 
depends so much of their beauty, that we must 
e*en lake them with all their "Mildness, and 
humour the verse accordingly. Leaving out 
the starting note in both tunes, has, I think, an 
effect that no regularity could counterbalance 
the want of. 

m f Oh Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 

\ lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 

and 

.,, f Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 
compare with^ ^ -^ . ., , ,. , . , , 

I. Lassie wi the Imt-white locks. 

Does not the tameness of tne prefixea syllable 
Btrike you ? In the last case, with the true furor 
of genius, you strike at once into the wild ori- 
ginality of the air ; whereas, in the first insipid 
method, it is like the grating screw of the pins 
before the fiddle is brought into tune. This is 
my taste ; if I am wrong, I beg pardon of the 
cognoscenti. 

" The Caledonian Hunt" is so charming, that 
it would make any subject in a song go down; 
but pathos is certainly its native tongue. Scot- 
tish bacchanalians we certainly want, though 
the few we have are excellent. For instance, 
"Todlin hame," is, for wit and humour, an 
unparalleled composition; and "Andrew and 
his cutty gun" is the work of a master. By the 
way, are you not quite vexed to think that 
those men of genius, for such they certainly 
were, who composed our fine Scottish lyrics, 
should be unknown ? It has given me many a 
neavt-ache* Apropos to bacchanalian songs in 
Scottish, I composed one yesterday, for an air 
I like much — "Lumps o' pudding." 

Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair.^ 
If you do not relish this air, I will send it to 
Tohnson. R. B. 



CCCVI. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The instrument which the poet got from the braes of 
I thol, soems of an order as rude and incapable of fine 



sounds as the whistles which school-boye make in spriD| 
from the smaller boughs of the plane-tree.] 

Since yesterday's penmanship, I have framed 

a couple of English stanzas, by way of an Eng- 

j lish song to " Roy's Wife." You will allow me, 

that in this instance my English corresponds ia 

sentiment with the Scottish. 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ?* 

Well ! I think this, to be done in two or thret 
turns across my room, and with two or three 
pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so far amiss. 
You see I am determined to have my quantum 
of applause from somebody. 

Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that wa 
only want the trifling circumstance of being 
known to one another, to be the best friends on 
earth) that I much suspect he has, in his plates, 
mi^tnkers ^^.he -^ijur"* of tbo stock and hf^rn. I 
have, at last, gotten one, but it is a very rude 
instrument. It is composed of three parts ; the 
stock, which is the hinder thigh-bone of a sheep, 
such as you see in a mutton ham ; the horn, 
which is a common Highland cow's horn, cut 
off at the smaller end, until the aperture be 
large enough to admit the stock to be pushed 
up through the horn until it be held by the 
thicker end of the thigh-bone ; and lastly, an 
oaten reed exactly cut and notched like that 
which you see every shepherd boy have, when 
the corn-stems are green and full grown. The 
reed is not made fast in the bone, but is held b;y 
the lips, and plays loose in the smaller end of 
the stock ; while the stock, with the horn hang- 
ing on its larger end, is held by the hands in 
playing. The stock has six or seven ventages 
on the upper side, and one back-ventage, like 
the common flute. This of mine was made by 
a man from the braes of Athole, and is exactly 
what the shepherds wont to use in that country. 

However, either it is not quite properly bored 
in the holes, or else we have not the art of blow- 
ing it rightly; for we can make little of it. If 
Mr. Allan chooses, I will send him a sight of 
mine, as I look on myself to be a kind of brother- 
brush with him. " Pride in poets is nae sin ;" 
and I will say it, that I look on Mr. Allan and 
Mr. Burns to be the only genuine and real 
painters of Scottish costume in the world. 

R. B. 



1 Song CCXXXVI. 



2 Song CCXXXVII 



OF EOBERT BURNS. 



481 



CCOVII. 
TO PETER MILLER, JUN., ESQ., 

OF DALSWINTON. 

r« - a COD versa tion with James Perry, editor of the 
jklcKun^ Clironicle, Mr. Miller, who was then member 
[•■-r the Dumfries boroughs, kindly represented the po- 
orly !>'the poet and the increasing number of his family : 
Perr)- &; once offered fifty pounds a year for any cAitri- 
Julions he might choose to make to his newspaper: the 
reasons for his refusal are stated in this letter.] 

Vumfnes, Nov. 1794. 
Dear Sir, 

Your offer is indeed truly generous, and most 
sincerely do I thank you for it ; but in my pre- 
sent situation, I find that I dare not accept it. 
You well know my political sentiments ; and 
were I an insular individual, unconnected with 
a wife and a family of children, with the most 
fervid enthusiasna I would have volunteered my 
services : I men could andwoula have despised 
all consequences that might have ensued. 

My prospect in the Excise is something ; at 
least it is, encumbered as I am with the welfare, 
the very existence, of near half-a-score of help- 
less individuals, what I dare not sport with. 

In ihe mean time, they are most welcome to 
my Ode ; only, let them insert it as a thing they 
have met with by accident and unknown to me. 
— Nay, if Mr. Perry, whose honour, after your 
character of him, I cannot doubt; if he will 
give me an address and channel by which any- 
thing will come safe from those spies with which 
he may be certain that his correspondence is 
beset, I will now and then send him any bagatelle 
that I may write. In the present hurry of 
Europe, nothing but news and politics will be 
regarded ; but against the days of peace, which 
Heaven send soon, my little assistance may per- 
haps fill up an idle column of a newspaper. I 
have long had it in my head to try my hand in 
the way of little prose essays, which I prop jse 
seniing'into the world though the medium of 
souk: newspaper ; and should these be worth 
his while, to these Mr. Perry shall be welcome ; 
and ail my reward shall be, his treating me 
irith his paper, which, by the bye, to anybody 
Irhc has the least relish for wit, is a high treat 
ndeed. 

With the most grateful esteem I am ever. 
Dear Sir, 

R. B. 



CCCVIII. 
TO MR. SAMUEL CLARKE. JUN.. 

DUMFRIES. 

[Political animosities troubled soc «ty during the ( <ty« 
of Burns, as much at least as they distort i* now — *1 .% 
letter is an instance of it.] 

Sunday Morning. 
DEAR Sir, 

I was, I know, drunk last night, but 1 am 
sober this morning. From the expressiona 
Capt. made use of to me, had I had no- 
body's welfare to care for but my own, we should 
certainly have come, according to the mannera 
of the world, to the necessity of murdering one 
another about the business. The words were 
such as, generally, I believe, end in a brace of 
pistols ; but I am still pleased to think that I 
did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and 
a family jf -jhildreTi If a drunken &qi.abble. 
Farther, you know that the report of certain po- 
litical opinions being mine, has already once 
before brought me to the brink of destruction 
I dread lest last night's business may be misre- 
presented in the same way. — You, I beg, will 
take care to prevent it. I tax your wish for 
Mr. Burns's welfare with the task of waiting as 
soon as possible, on every gentleman who was 
present, and state this to him, and, as you please, 
show him this letter. What, after all, was the 
obnoxious toast? *' May our success in the pre- 
sent war be equal to the justice of our cause." 
— A toast that the most outrageous frenzy of 
loyalty cannot object to. I request and beg 
that this morning you will wait en the parties 
present at the foolish dispute. 1 rfhall only add, 
that I am truly sorry that a man who stood so 

high in my estimation as Mr. , should use 

me in the manner in which I conceive he has 
done. R. B. 



CCOIX. 
TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Burns allowed for the songs which Wo.cot wrote lo« 
Thomson a degree of lyric merit which the world hai 
refused to sanction.] 

December, 1794. 

It is, I assure you, the pride of my heart to 
do anything to forward or add to the value of 
your book ; and as I agree with you that th« 
Jacobite song in the Museum to " There'll nevef 



I8» 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



be peace till Jamie comes hame," would not so 
well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent love- 
Bong to that air, I have just fiamed for you the 
following : — 

Now in her green mantle, &c.' 

H w does this please you ? As to the point of 
time for the expression, in your proposed print 
from my '* Sodger's Return," it must certainly 
be at — " She gaz'd." The interesting dubiety 
and suspense taking possession of her counte- 
nance, and the gushing fondness, with a mix- 
ture of roguish playfulness, in his, strike me as 
things of which a master will make a great deal. 
In great haste, but in great truth, yours. 

R. B. 



cccx. 
TO MR. THOMSON. 

[In this brief and off-hand way Burns bestows on 
Thomson one of the finest songs ever dedicated to the 
Bause of human freedom.] 

January^ 1795. 

I FEAU for my songs; however, a few may 
please, yet originality is a coy feature in com- 
position, and in a multiplicity of efforts in the 
game style, disappears altogether. For these 
three thousand years, we poetic folks have been 
describing the spring, for instance ; and as the 
Bpring continues the same, there must soon be 
a sameness m the imagery, &c., of these said 
rhyming folks. 

A great critic (Aikin) on songs, says that love 
and wine are the exclusive themes for song- 
Writing. The following is on neither subject, 
%nd consequently is no song ; but will be aJ- 
owed, I think, to be two or three pretty good 
pn»se thoughts inverted into rhyme. 

Is there for honest poverty.^ 

I do not give you the foregoing song for your 
book, but merely by way of vive la bagatelle; 
for the piece is not really poetry. How will 
ihe following Jo for " Craigieburn-wood ?" — 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn.^ 

Farewell God bless you ! R. B. 



1 Song cox KXVIIl. 



2 Song CCLXIV 



COCXI. 
TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Of this letter Dr. Currie writes, " the poet must ha^i 
been tipsy indeed to abuse sweet Ecclefechan at this 
rate ;" it is one of the prettiest of our Annanda.e vL 
lages, and the birth-place of that distinguished biog'-a 
pher.] 

Ecclefechan, 7 th February, 17*^5, 
My dear Thomson, 

You cannot have any idea of the piedicamen' 
in which I write to you. In the course of mj 
duty as supervisoi (in which capacity I have 
acted of late), I came yesternight to this unfor- 
tunate, wicked little village. I have gone for- 
ward, but snows of ten feet deep have impeded 
my progress: I have tried to "gae back the 
gate I cam again," but the same obstacle haa 
shut me up within insuperable bars. To add 
to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has 
been torturing catgut, in sounds that would 
have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under 
the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on 
that very account, exceeding good company. 
In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get 
drunk, to forget these miseries ; or to hang 
myself, to get rid of them : like a prudent man 
(a character congenial to my every thought, 
word, and deed), I of two evils have chosen the 
least, and am very drunk, at your service ! 

I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I had 
not time then to tell you all I wanted to say ; 
and, Heaven knows, at present I have not ca- 
pacity. 

Do you know an air — I am sure you must 
know it— "We'll gang nae mair to yon town?" 
I think, in slowish time, it would make an ex- 
cellent song, I am highly delighted with iti 
and if you should think it worthy of your atten- 
tion, I have a fair dame in my eye to whom 1 
would consecrate it. 

As I am just going to bed, I wish you a gooJ 
-night. R. B. 



CCCXII. 
TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The song of Caledonia, in honour of Mrs. Bums, 
accompanied by two others in honour of the poet'i i 



sSongCCXLV, 



OF ROBEET BURNS. 



4^9 



lrfi«« the muse was high in song, and used few words 
in the lot**r which enclosed them.] 

May, 1795. 

STAT, sweet warbling woodlark, stay!' 

Let me know, your very first leisure, how 
y u like this song. 

Long, long the night.2 

How d: you like the foregoing? The Irish 
ail, "Humours of Glen," is a great favourite 
of mins, and as, except the silly stuff in the 
" Poor Soldier," there are not any decent verses 
for it, 1 have written for it as follows : — 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 
reckon.** 



Let me hear from you. 



R. B. 



CCCXIII. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The ijoe*^ calls for praise in this letter, a species of 
*ia which is always ready.] 

How cruel are the parents. 4 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion.^ 

Well, this is not amiss. You see how I an- 
swer your orders — your tailor could not be more 
punctual. I am just now in a high fit for poet- 
izing, provided that the strait-jacket of criti- 
cism don't cure me. If you can, in a post or 
two, administer a little of the intoxicating po- 
tion of your applause, it will raise your humble 
servant's phrensy to any height you want. I 
am at this moment " holding high converse" 
with the muses, and have not a word to throw 
away on such a prosaic dog as you are. 

R. B. 



CCCXIV. 



TO MR. THOMSON. 

(T^'^mson at this time sent the arawing to Burns in 
wt.ijn David Allan sought to embody the " Cotter's 
Saturday Night:" it displays at once the talent and want 
n( taste of the ingenious artist.] 

May, 1795. 

Ten thousand thanks for your elegant pre- 
sent — though I am ashamed of the value of it, 



CCXLIX. 2 Sor? CCL. 3 Song CCLI. 



being bestowed on a man who has not, by any 
means, merited such an instance of kindness, 
1 have shown it to two or three judges of the 
first abilities here, and they all agree with me 
in classing it as a first-rate production. ]\Iy 
phiz is sae kenspeckle, that the very joiner's 
apprentice, whom Mrs. Burns employed to break 
up the parcel (I was cut of town that day' knew 
it at once. My most grateful compliments to 
Allan, who has honoured my rustic music so 
much with his masterly pencil. One strange 
coincidence is, that the little one who is making 
the felonious attempt on the cat's tail, is the 
most striking likeness of an ill-deedie, d — n'd, 
wee, rumbiegrJrie urchin of mine, whom from 
that propeD'.sity to witty wickedness, and man- 
fu' mischief, which, even at twa days auld, I 
foresaw would form the striking features of hia 
disposition, I named Willie Nicol, after a cer- 
tain friend of mine, who is one of the masters 
of a grammar-school in a city which shall D<a 
nameless. 

Give the enclosed epigram to my much-va- 
lued friend Cunningham, and tell him, that on 
Wednesday I go to visit a friend of his, to 
whom his friendly partiality in speaking of me 
in a manner introduced me — I mean a well- 
known military and literary character, Colonel 
Dirom. 

You do not tell me how you liked my two last 
songs. Are they condemned ? 

R. B 



CCCXV. 
TO MR. THOMSON. 

[In allusion to the preceding letter, Thomson says .o 
Burns, " You really make me blush when you tell ma 
you have not merited the drawing from me." The " Foi 
a' that and a' that," which went with this letter, was, i 
IS believed, the composition of Mrs. Riddel.] 

In "Whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad,' 
the iteration of that line is tiresome to my ear. 
Here goes what I think is an improvement : — 

Oh whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lal ; 
Oh whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
Tho' father and mother and a' should gae mad, 
Thy Jeanie will venture wi' ye, my lad. 

In fact, a fair dame, at whose shrine I, th« 
priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Par- 
nassus — a dame whom the Graces have attired! 



4 Song CCLllI. 



5 Song CCLIV 



490 



GENERAL COiiRESPONDENCE 



in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed 
with lightning — a fair one, herself the heroine 
of the song, insists on the amendment, and dis- 
pute her commands if you dare ? 

This is no my ain lassie, i &c. 

Do you know that you have roused the torpi- 
iity of Clarke at last? He has requested me to 
write three or four songs for him, which he is 
so set to mujiuc himself. The enclosed sheet 
ootitains two songs for him, which please to pre- 
sent to my valued friend Cunningham. 

I enclose the sheet open, both for your inspec- 
tion, and that you may copy the song " Oh bon- 
nie was yon rosy brier." I do not know whether 
I am right, but that song pleases me ; and as it 
is extremely probable that Clarke's pewly- 
roused celestial spark will be soon smothered in 
thp fog.« of indolence, if you like the song, it 
mi.^ go ^s Scv^ctis^ <^erii£s3 to .ne ai^- ol • I vn;ili 
my love was in a mire;" and poor Erskine's 
English lines may follow. 

I enclose you a *' For a' that and a' that," 
which was never in print : it is a much superior 
song to mine. I have been told that it was 
composed by a lady, and some lines written on 
the blank leaf of a copy of the last edition of 
my poems, presented to the lady whom, in so 
many fictitious reveries of passion, but with the 
most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I 
have so often sung under the name of Chloris : — 

To Chloris.2 



Uhe bagatelle de Vamitie. 



COILA. 

R. B. 



CCCXVI. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

lin the double service of poesy and music the poet had 
to sing of pangs which he never endured, from beauties 
Wj whom he had never spoken.] 

FoRLOKN my love, no comfort near, &c.^ 

How do you like the foregoing? I have writ- 
Sen it within this hour : so much for the speed 
»f my Pegasus; but what say you to his bottom ? 

R. B. 



» Song UCi.V 2 Poems, No. CXLVI. 

3 8,ing CCLVIII. 



CCCXVII. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The unexampled brevity of Burns's lettersj »nd th« 
extraordinary flow and grace of lis songs, towards tha 
close of his life, have not now for the first t xe le«* 
remarked.] 

Last May a braw wooer.* 
Why, why tell thy lover. ^ 

Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of this 
air, that I find it impossible to make another 
stanza to suit it. 

I am at present quite occupied with the charm- 
ing sensations of the toothache, so have not a 
word to spare. R. B. 



cccxvni. 



TO MRc). RlDLEL. 



Suppos 



himself to be writing from the dead to tha 
living. 



[Ill health, poverty, a sense of dependence, with the 
much he had deserved of his country, and the little he 
had obtained, were all at this time pressing on the mind 
of Burns, and inducing him to forget what was due to 
himself as well as to the courtesies ol 3ife.] 

Madam, 
I DARE say that this is the first epistle you 
ever received from this nether world. I write 
you from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors 
of the damned. The time and the manner ct 
my leaving your earth I do not exactly know, aa 
I took my departure in the heat of a fever of 
intoxication contracted at your too hospitable 
mansion ; but, on my arrival here, I was fairly 
tried, and sentenced to endure the purgatorial 
tortures of this infernal confine for the space of 
ninety-nine years, eleven months, and twenty- 
nine days, and all on account of the imj roprietj 
of my conduct yesternight under your roof. 
Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, with 
my aching head reclined on a pillow of ever- 
piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor, 
wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his name I think 
is Recollection, with a whip of scorpions, forbids 
peace or rest to approach me, and keeps anguish 
eternally awake. Still, Madam, if I could iu 
any measure be reinstated in the good opinion 
of the fair circle whom my conduct last nigh| 



4 Song CCLIX. 



8 Song CCLlX. 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



491 



sc much injured, I think it would be an allevia- 
tion to my torments. For this reason I trouble 
jrou with this letter. To the men of the company 
I will make no apology. — Your husband, who 
insisted on my drinking more than I chose, has 
no right to blame me ; and the other gentlemen 
were partakers of my guilt. But to you, Madam, 
I have much to apologize. Your good opinion I 
talued as one of the greatest acquisitions I had 
mode on earth, and I was truly a beast to forfeit 

it There was a IMiss I , too, a woman of 

fine sense, gentle and unassuming manners — do 
make on my part, a miserable d-mned wretch's 

best apology to her. A Mrs. G , a charming 

woman, did me the honour to be prejudiced in 
my favour ; this makes me hope that I have not 
outraged her beyond all forgiveness. — To all the 
other ladies please present my humblest contri- 
tion ff^v m'^ 'iop'^'ict, ''nd mv pe+itior ^or their 
gracious pardon. all ye powers oi decency 
and decorum ! whisper to them that my errors, 
though great, were involuntary — that an intoxi- 
cated man is the vilest of beasts — that it was 
not in my nature to be brutal to any one — that 
to be rude to a woman, when in my senses, was 
impossible with me — but — 

^ •!«• -x- -x- •»■ •?«■ 

Regret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye three hell- 
hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my 
heels, spare me ! spare me ! 

Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition 
n^ Madam, your humble slave. 

R. B. 



CCCXIX. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

[Mrs. Riddel, it is said, possessed many more of the 
»o«t'8 letters than are printed — she sometimes read them 
DO friends who could feel their wit, and, like hersijlf, 
ttake allo'vance for their freedom.] 

Dumfries, 1795. 
Mr. BuKXrf * compliments to Mrs. Riddel — 
ig much obliged to her for her polite attention 
In seiding him the book. Owing to Mr. B.'s 
oeing at present acting as supervisor of excise, 
a department that occupies his every hour of 
Ihe day, he has not that time to spare which is 
necessary for any belle-lettre pursuit ; but, aa 
he will, in a week or two, again return to his 
wonted leisure, he will then pay that attention 
» Mrs. R.'s beautiful song, "To thee, lovad 



I Nith" — which it so well deserves. When "Ana 
charsis' Travels" come to hand, which Mrs. 
Riddel mentioned as her gift to the public li- 
brary, Mr. B. will thank her for a reading of it 
previous to her sending it to the librai^, as it is 
a book Mr. B. has never seen : he wishes to have 
a longer perusal of them than the regulations 
of the library allow. 

Friday Evt 
P. S. Mr. Burns will be much olliged to 
Mrs. Riddel if she will favour him with a peru- 
sal of any of her poetical pieces which he may 
not have seen. R. B 



cccxx. 

T<> M^^S ^Ov:iS.. FLx^T^NL^LL. 

[That Miss Fontenelle, as an actress, did not deserv« 
the high praise which Burns bestows may be guessed: 
the lines to which he alludes were recited by the lady on 
her benefit-nightj and are printed among his Poems.] 

Dumfries, December, 1795. 
Madam, 

In such a bad world as ours, those who add 
to the scanty sum of our pleasures, are posi- 
tively our benefactors. To you. Madam, on 
our humble Dumfries boards, I have been more 
indebted for entertainment than ever I was in 
prouder theatres. Your charms as a woman 
would insure appla-ase to the most indifferent 
actress, and your 'heatrical talents would in- 
sure admiration to the plainest figure. This, 
Madam, is not the unmeaning or insidious com- 
pliment of the frivolous or interested ; I pay it 
from the same honest impulse that the sublime 
of nature excites my admiration, or her beauties 
give me delight. 

"Will the foregoing lines be of any service ta 
you in your approaching benefit-night ? If they 
will I shall be prouder of my muse than ever. 
They are nearly extempore : I know they have 
no great merit ; but though they should add bul 
little to the entertainment of the evening, they 
give me the happiness of an opportunity to a«- 
clare how much I have the honour to be, &c. 

B. B. 



CCCXXI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

n a the sweet girl to whom Burns alludes in this letter 
he wxs deprived during this year: her death pressed 
Borely on him.] 

16th December, 1795. 
Mt.deae Friend, 
As 1 am in a complete Decemberish humour, 
gloomy, sullen, stupid as even the Deity of Dul- 
ness herself could wish, I shall not drawl out a 
heavy letter with a number of heavier apologies 
for my late silence. Only one I shall mention, 
because I know you will sympathize in it : these 
four months, a sweet little girl, my youngest 
child, has been so ill, that every day, a week or 
less, threatened to terminate her existence. 
There had much need be many pleasures an- 
nexed to the states of husband and father, for, 
God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I 
cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless 
hours these ties frequently give me. I see a 
train of helpless little folks ; me and my exer- 
tions all their stay: and on what a brittle 
thread does the life of man hang ! If I am nipt 
off at the command of fate ! even in all the vigour 
of manhood as I am — such things happen every 
day — gracious God ! what would become of my 
little flock! 'Tis here that I envy your people 
of fortune. — A father on his death-bed, taking 
an everlasting leave of his children, has indeed 
woe enough ; but the man of competent fortune 
leaves his sons and daughters independency and 
friends ; while I — but I shall run distracted if 
I think any longer on the subject! 

To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I 
ehall sing with the old Scots ballad — 

" O that I had ne'er been married, 
I would never had nae care ; 
Now I've gotten wife and bairns, 
They cry crowdie ! evermair. 

Crowdie : ance ; crowdie ! twice ; 

Crowdie ! three times in a day ; 
An ye crowdie ! ony mair, 

Ye'U crowdie ! a' ray meal away." — 
***** -Sf 

December 24th. 
We have had a brilliant theatre here this sea- 
ion ; only, as all other business does, it experi- 
ences a stagnation of trade from the epidemical 
complaint of the country, want of cash. I men- 
tior^ed our theatre merely to lug in an occasional 
Address which I wrote for the benefit-night of 
>ne of the actresses, and which is as follows: — 



ADDRESS, 

SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEPIT-RiaMt 
DEC. 4, 1795, AT THE THEATKE, DUMFRIBS. 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, &o 

25th, Christmas- Morning. 

This, my much-loved friend, is a morning of 
wishes — accept mine — so heaven hear me aa 
they are sincere ! that blessings may attend your 
steps, and affliction know you not 1 In the 
charming words of my favourite author, '* The 
Man of Feeling," <*May the Great Spirit bear 
up the weight of thy gray hairs, and blunt the 
arrow that brings them rest !" 

Now that I talk of authors, how do you like 
Cowper ? Is not the " Task" a glorious poem ? 
The religion of the " Task," bating a few scraps 
of Calvinistic divinity, is the religion of God 
and nature ; the religion that exalts, that en- 
nobles man. Were not you to send me your 
*' Zeluco," in return for mine ? Tell me how 
you like my marks and notes through the book. 
I would not give a farthing for a book, unless I 
were at liberty to blot it with my criticisms. 

I have lately collected, for a friend's perusal, 
all my letters; I mean those which I first 
sketched, in a rough draught, and afterwards 
wrote out fair. On looking over some old musty 
papers, which, from time to time, I had par- 
celled by, as trash that were scarce worth pre- 
serving, and which yet at the same time I did 
not care to destroy ; I discovered many of these 
rude sketches, and have written, and am writ- 
ing them out, in a bound MS. for my friend's 
library. As I wrote always to you the rhap- 
sody of the moment, I cannot find a single scroll 
to you, except one about the commencement of 
our acquaintance. If there were any possible 
conveyance, I would send you a perusal of my 
book. R. B. 



CCCXXII. 



TO MR. ALEXANDER FINDLATER, 

SUPEKVISOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES^ 

[The person to whom tliis letter is addresf-^d, is the 
same who lately denied that Burns was harshly used b> 
the Board of Excise : but those, and they are many, who 
believe what the poet wrote to Erskine, of Mar, cannot 
agree with Mr. Findlater.] 

Sir, 
Enclosed are the two schemes. I would not 
have troubled you with the collector's one, but 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



493 



Tor suspicion lest it be not right. Mr. Erskine 
promised me to make it riglit, if you will have 
the goodness to show him how. As I have no 
copy of the scheme for myself, and the altera- 
tions being very considerable from what it was 
formerly, I hope that I shall have access to this 
scheme I S3nd you, when I come to face up my 
new books. So much for schemes. — And that no 
tcheme to betray a friend, or mislead a stran- 
■ser; to seduce a young girl, or rob a hen- 
roost; to subvert liberty, or bribe an excise- 
man ; to disturb the general assembly, or 
annoy a gossipping ; to overthrow the credit 
of ORTHODOXY, or the authority of old songs ; 
to oppose your zvishes, or frustrate my hopes — may 
PROSPER — is the sincere wish and prayer of 

R. B. 



CCCXXIII. 



TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORN- 
ING CHRONICLE. 

jOroraek says, ^vhen a neighbour complained that his 
copy of the Morning Chronicle was not regularly de- 
livered to him from the post-office, the poet wrote the 
following indignant letter to Perry on a leaf of his excise- 
book, but before it went to the post he reflected and 
•ecalled it.] 

Dumfries, 1795. 
Sir, 

You will see by your subscribers' list, that I 
aave been about nine months of that iiumber. 

I am sorry to inform you, that in that time, 
seven or eight of your papers either have never 
been sent me, or else have never reached me. 
To be deprived of any one number of the first 
newspaper in Great Britain for information, 
ability, and independence, is what I can ill 
brook and bear ; but to be deprived of that most 
admirable oration of the Marquis of Lansdowne, 
when he made the great though ineffectual at- 
tempt (in the language of the poet, I fear too 
true), " to save a sinking state" — this was a 
^03S that I neither can nor will forgive you. — 
That paper. Sir, never reached me; but I de- 
mand it of you. I am a Briton ; and must be 
interested in the cause of liberty : — I am a 
HAN ; and the rights of human nature cannot 
be indifferent to me. However, do not let me 
mislead you: I am not a man in that situation 
of life, which, as your subscriber, can be of 
any consequence to you, in the eyes of those to 
w^hom SITUATION OF life alone is the criterion 
f man. — I am but a plain tradesman, in this 



distant, obscure country town : but that humbia 
domicile in which I shelter my wile and children 
is the Castellum of a Briton ; and that scanty^ 
hard-earned income which supports them is aa 
truly my property, as the most magnificent 
fortune, of the most puissant member of yo'JOt 
house of nobles. 

These, Sir, are my «<:iwtiments ; md to then 
I subscribe my name : and were I a man of 
ability and consequence enough to address th€ 
PUBLIC, with that name should they appear. 

I am, &o. 



CCCXXIV. 

To MR. HERON, 
of heron. 

[Of Patrick Heron, of Kerroughtree, something haa 
been said in the notes on the Ballads which bear hli 
name.] 

Dumfries, 1794, or 1795. 
Sir, 
I ENCLOSE you some copies of a couple of po- 
litical ballads ; one of which, I believe, you 
have never seen. Would to Heaven I could 
make you master of as many votes in the Stew- 

artry— but — 

" Who does the utmost that he can, 
Does well, acts nobly, angels could no more." 

In order to bring my humble efforts to bear 
with more effect on the foe, I have privately 
printed a good many copies of both ballads, and 
have sent them among friends all about the 
country. 

To pillory on Parnassus the rank reprobation 
of character, the utter dereliction of all prin 
ciple, in a profligate junto which has not only 
outraged virtue, but violated common decency ; 
which, spurning even hypocrisy as paltry ini- 
quity below their daring; — to unmask their 
flagitiousness to the broadest day — to deliver 
such over to their merited fate, is surely no4 
merely innocent, but laudable ; is not only pro- 
priety, but virtue. You have already, as youi 
auxiliary, the sober detestation of mankind on 
the heads of your opponents; and i dwear by 
the lyre of Thalia to muster on your side all 
the votaries of honest laughter, and fair, candiq 
ridicule ! 

I am extremely obliged to you^ for your kind 
m«ntion of my interests in a letter which Mr 
Syme showed me. At present my situation in 
life must be in a great measure stationary, at 



194 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



least for two or three years. The statement is 
this — I am on the supervisors' list, and as we 
come on there by precedency, in two or three 
years I shall be at the head of that list, and be 
appointed oj course. Then, a frieno might be 
of (Service to me in getting me into a place of 
Ihe kingdom which I would like. A supervisor's 
income varies from about a hundred and twenty 
•c two hundred a year ; but the business is an 
iifjessant drudgery, and would be nearly a 
complete bar to every species of literary pur- 
suit. The -moment I am appointed supervisor, 
in the common routine, I may be nominated on 
the collector's list; and this is always a busi- 
ness purely of political patronage. A collector- 
ship varies much, from better than two hundred 
a year to near a thousand. They also come 
forward by precedency on the list ; and have, 
besides a handsome income, a life of complete 
leisure. A life of literary leisure with a decent 
competency, is the summit of my wishes. It 
would be the prudish affectation of silly pride 
in me to say that I do not need, or would not 
be indebted to a political friend ; at the same 
time, Sir, I by no means lay my affairs before 
you thus, to hook my dependent situation on 
your benevolence. If, in my progress of life, 
an opening should occur where the good offices 
of a gentleman of your public character and 
political consequence might bring me forward, 
I shall petition your goodness with the same 
frankness as I now do myself the honour to sub- 
scribe myself R. B. 



CCCXXV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

IN LONDON. 

fin tha correspondence of the poet with Mrs. Dunlop 
^e mrely mentions Thomson's Collection of Songs, 
hough his 1. "art was set much upon it: in the Dunlop 
ibinr> t! eri are mnny letters from the poet, it is said, 
»-.irh na 5 n( * been publislied.] 

Dumfries, 20th December, 1795. 
1 HAVE been prodigiously disappointed in this 
I ondon journey of yours. In the first place, 
when your last to me reached Dumfries, I was 
In ^-he country, and did not return until too 
laif* to answer your letter ; in the next place, I 
thought you would certainly take this route ; 
»nJ fiOT? I knoT\ not what is become of you, or 



whether this may reach you at all. God gran< 
that it may find you and yours in prospering 
health and good spirits ! Do let me hear from 
you the soonest possible. 

As I hope to get a frank from my friend Cap- 
tain Miller, I shall every leisure hour, take up 
the pen, and gossip away whatever comes first, 
prose or poetry, sermon or song. In this la8< 
article I have abounded of late. I have often 
mentioned to you a superb publication of Scot- 
tish songs which is making its appearance in 
your great metropolis, and where I have the 
honour to preside over the Scottish verse, as no 
less a personage than Peter Pindar does oveJ 
the English. 

December 29th. 
Since I began this letter, I have been ap- 
pointed to act in the capacity of supervisor 
here, and I assure you, what with the load of 
business, and what with that business being 
new to me, I could scarcely have commanded 
ten minutes to have spoken to you, had you 
been in town, much less to have written you 
an epistle. This appointment is only temporary, 
and during the illness of the present incumbent ; 
but I look forward to an early period when I 
shall be appointed in full form : a consumma- 
tion devoutly to be wished ! My political sina 
seem to be forgiven me. 

This is the season (New-year's-day Is now my 
date) of wishing ; and mine are most fervently 
offered up for you ! May life to you be a posi- 
tive blessing while it lasts, for your own sake ; 
and that it may yet be greatly prolonged, is my 
wish for my own sake, and for the sake of the 
rest of your friends ! What a transient business 
is life ! Very lately I was a boy ; but t'other 
day I was a young man; and t already begin 
to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of 
old age coming fast o'er my frame. With all 
my follies of youth, and I fear, a few vices of 
manhood, still I congratulate myself on having 
had in early days religion strongly impressed 
on my mind. I have nothing to say to any one 
as to which sect he belongs to, or what creed he 
believes : but I look on the man, who is firmly 
persuaded of infinite wisdom and goodness, su- 
perintending and directing every circumstanca 
j that can happen in his lot — I felicitate siich a 
i man as having a solid foundation for his mental 
j enjoyment ; a firm prop and sure stay, in tna 
I hour of difficulty, trouble, and distress ; and a 
I never-failing anchor of hope, when he looks bo- 
I yond the grave. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



49? 



January Vlth. 

You will have seen our worthy and ingenious 
friend, the Doctor, long ere this. I hope he is 
well, and beg to be remembered to him. I have 
just been reading over again, I dare say for the 
hundred and fiftieth time, his View of Society and 
Minners ; and still I read it with delight. His 
humour is perfectly original — it is neither the 
humour of Addison, nor Swift, nor Sterne, nor 
of anyhi'dy but Dr. Moore. By the bye, you 
have doDrived me of Zeluco, remember that, 
when yoti are disposed to rake up the sins of 
Jiiy neglect from among the ashes of my laziness. 

He has paid me a pretty compliment, by quot- 
ing; nifc In his last publication.' 

* * -se- -x- * * 

R. B. 



CCCXXVI. 



ADDRESS OF THE SCOTCH DISTILLERS 

TO THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM PITT. 

[This ironical letter to the prime minister was found 
*mong the papers of Burns.] 

Sir, 
While pursy burgesses crowd your gate, sweat- 
ing under the weight of heavy addresses, per- 
mit us, the quondam distillers in that part of 
Great Britain called Scotland, to approach you, 
not with venal approbation, but with fraternal 
condolence ; not as what you are just now, or 
for some time have been ; but as what, in all 
probability, you will shortly be. — We shall have 
the merit of not deserting our friends in the 
day of their calamity, and you will have the 
satisfaction of perusing at least one honest ad- 
dress. You are well acquainted with the dis- 
section of human nature ; nor do you need the 
assistance of a fellow-creature's bosom to in- 
form you, that man is always a selfish, often a 
ferfid'.ous being. — This assertion, however the 
hasty conclusions of superficial observation may 
ioulit of it, or the raw inexperience of youth 
jQay deny it, those who make the fatal experi- 
ment we have done, will feel. — You are a states- 
Oijin, and consequently are not ignorant of the 
traffic of these coi-poration compliments — The 
little great man who drives the borough to 
market, and the very great man who buys the 
borough in that market, they two do the whole 
business ; and you well know they, likewise. 



Kdward. 



have their price. With that sullen disdain 
which you can so well assume, rise, illustrious 
Sir, and spurn these hireling efiforts of venal 
stupidity. At best they are the compliments of 
a man's friends on the morning of his execution : 
they take a decent farewell, resign you to your 
fate, and hurry away from your approaching 
hour. 

If fame say true, and omens be not very much 
mistaken, you are about to make your exit from 
that world where the sun of gladness gilds the 
paths of prosperous man : permit us, great Sir, 
with the sympathy of fellow-feeling to hail your 
passage to the realms of ruin. 

Whether the sentiment proceed from the 
selfishness or cowardice of mankind is immate- 
rial ; but to point out to a child of misfortune 
those who are still more unhappy, is to give him 
some degree of positive enjoyment. In this 
light. Sir, our downfall may be again useful to 
you : — though not exactly in the same way, it 
is not perhaps the first time it has gratified 
your feelings. It is true, the triumph of your 
evil star is exceedingly despiteful. — At an age 
when others are the votaries of pleasure, or un- 
derlings in business, you had attained the high 
est wish of a British statesman ; and with the 
ordinary date of human life, what a prospect 
was before you! Deeply rooted in Royal favour, 
you overshadowed the land. The birds of pas- 
sage, which follow ministerial sunshine through 
every clime of political faith and manneis, 
flocked to your branches ; and the beasts of the 
field (the lordly possessors of hills and valleys) 
crowded under your shade. "But behold a 
watcher, a holy one, came down from heaven, 
and cried aloud, and said thus : Hew down the 
tree, and cut off his branches ; shake off hia 
leaves, and scatter his fruit ; let the boasts get 
away from under it, and the fowls from his 
branches !" A blow from an anthought-of quai 
ter, one of those terrible accidents which pstu 
liarly mark the hand of Omnipotence, overaet 
your career, and laid all your fancied honours la 
the dust. But turn your eyes. Sir, to the tracric 
scenes of our fate : — an ancient nation, that for 
[ many ages had gallantly maintained the unequal 
struggle for independence with her much mor« 
powerful neighbour, at last agrees to a union 
which should ever after make them one people. 
In consideration of certain ciircumstances, it 
was covenanted that the former should enjoy a 
stipulated alleviation in her share of thepubli* 



496 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



burdens, particularly in that branch of the re- 
venue called the Excise. This just privilege has 
of late given great umbrage to some interested, 
powerful individuals of the more potent part of 
the empire, and they have spared no wicked 
pains, under insidious pretexts, to subvert what 
they dared not openlj to attack, from the dread 
which they yet entertained ot the spirit of their 
ancient enemies. 

In this conspiracy we fell ; nor did we alone 
suffer, our country was deeply wounded. A 
number of (we will say) respectable individuals, 
largely engaged in trade, where we were not 
only useful, but absolutely necessary to our 
sountry in her dearest interests ; we, with all 
that was near and dear to us, were sacrificed 
without remorse, to the infernal deity of politi- 
cal expediency ! We fell to gratify the wishes 
of dark envy, and the views of unprincipled am- 
bition ! Your foes. Sir, were avowed ; were too 
brave to take an ungenerous advantage ; you 
fell in the face of day. — On the contrary, our 
enemies, to complete our overthrow, contrived 
to make their guilt appear the villany of a 
nation. — Your downfall only drags with you 
your private friends and partisans : in our mi- 
sery are more or less involved the most nume- 
rous and most valuable part of the community 
-all those who immediately depend on the cul- 
tivation of the soil, from the landlord of a pro- 
vince, down to his lowest hind. 

Allow us, Sir, yet further, just to hint at 
another rich vein of comfort in the dreary 
regions of adversity ; — the gratulations of an 
approving conscience. In a certain great assem- 
bly, of which you are a distinguished member, 
panegyrics on your private virtues have so often 
wounded your delicacy, that we shall not dis- 
tress you with anything on the subject. There 
is, however, one part of your public conduct 
which our feelings will not permit us to pass in 
silence : our gratitude must trespass on your 
modesty ; we mean, worthy Sir, your whole be- 
haviour to the Scots Distillers. — In evil hours, 
when obtrusive recollection presses bitterly on 
tne sense, let that, Sir, come like an healing 
angel, f.n"^. speak the peace to your soul which 
the f^or' J -Min neither give nor take away. 
"^ e h vfe the honour to be, 
Sir, 
> / 9x sympathizing fellow-sufferers, 
And grateful humble servants, 

John Barleycorn — Prseses. 



OCC'XX YII. 

TO THE HON. PROVOST, BAILIES, AND 
TOWN COUNCIL OF DUMFRIES. 

[The Provost tnd Dailies complitjd at on e vsrith th« 
modest reqteat oi the poet : both Jackson anc Staig, who 
were heaao of the town by turns, were men of taste aoifi 
feeling.] 

Gentlemen, 

The literary taste and liberal spirit of youi 
good town has so ably filled the various depart- 
ments of your schools, as to make it a very 
great object for a parent to have his children 
educated in them. Still, to me, a stranger, 
with my large family, and very stinted income, 
to give my young ones that education I wish, 
at the high school fees wMch a stranger pays, 
will bear hard upon me. 

Some years ago your gocd town did me the 
honour of making me ."in honorary burgess. — 
Will you allow me to request that this maik of 
distinction may extend so far, as to put me on 
a footing of a real frf;evn&,n of the town, in the 
schools ? 

If you are so very lind as to grant my re- 
quest, it will certainl;j be a constant incentive 
to me to strain every nerve where I can officially 
serve you ; and will, if possible, increase that 
grateful respect with which I have the honour 
to be. 

Gentlemen, 
Your devoted humble servant, 

R. B 



cccxxvni. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

[Mrs. Riddel was, like Burns, a well-wisher to the 
great cause of human liberty and lamented with him tha 
excesses of the French Revolution ] 

Dumfries, 20 ih January, 1796. 

I CANNOT express my gratitude to you, for 
allowing me a longer perusal of '* Anacharsis." 
In fact, I never met with a book that bewitcher! 
me so much ; and I, as a member of the library, 
must warmly feel the obligation you have laid 
us under. Indeed to me the obligation is 
stronger than to any other individual of our 
society; as "Anacharsis" is an indispensable 
desideratum to a son of the muses. 

The health you wished me in your morning's 
card, is, I think, flown from me for ever. } 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



497 



have not been able to leave my bed to-day till 
about an hour ago. These wickedly unlucky 
advertisements I lent (I did wrong) to a friend, 
and I am ill able to go in quest of him. 

The muses have not quite forsaken me. The 
following detached stanza I intend to interweave 
in some disastrous tale of a shepherd. 

R. B. 



CCCXXIX. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

lit seems that Mrs. Dunlop regarded the conduct of 
Burns, for some months, with displeasure, and withheld 
or delayed her usual kind and charming communica- 
tions.] 

Dumfries, Slst January/, 1796. 
These many months you have been two 
packets in my debt — what sin of ignorance I 
have committed against so highly-valued a friend 
I am utterly it a loss to guess. Alas ! Madam, 
ill can I afford, at this time, to be deprived of 
any of the small remnant of my pleasures. I 
have lately drunk deep in the cup of affliction. 
The autumn robbed me of my only daughter 
and darling child, and that at a distance too, 
and so rapidly, as to put it out of my power to 
oay the last duties to her. I had scarcely be- 
gun to recover from that shock, when I became 
myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic 
fever, and long the die spun doubtful; until, 
after many weeks of a sick bed, it seems to 
have turned up life, and I am beginning to crawl 
across my room, and once indeed have been be- 
fore my own door in the street. 

" AVhen pleasure fascinates the mental sight, 
Affliction purifies the visual ray. 
Religion hails the drear, the untried night, 
And shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtful day." 

R. B. 



cccxxx. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Cromek in'ormed me, on the authority of Mrs. Burns, 
•iiat the " handsome, elegnnt present" mentioned in this 
flBtter, was a common worsted shawl.] 

February, 1796. 
Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your hand- 
lome, elegant present to Mrs. Burns, and for 



Song CCLXVI. 



32 



my remaining volume of P. Pindar. Peter is a 
delightful fellow, and a first favourite of mine, 
I am much pleased with your idea of publishing 
a collection of our songs in octavo, with etchings. 
I am extremely willing to lend every assistance 
in my power. The Irish airs I shall cheerfully 
undertake the task of finding verses for. 

I have already, you know, equipt three witK 
words, and the other day I strung up a kind of 
rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which 
I admire much. 

Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms.* 

If this will do, you have now four of my Irish 
engagement. In my by-past songs I dislike 
one thing, the name Chloris — I meant it as the 
fictitious name of a certain lady : but, on second 
thoughts, it is a high incongruity to have a 
Greek appellation to a Scottish pastoral ballad. 
Of this, and some things else, in my next : I 
have more amendments to propose. What you 
once mentioned of *' flaxen locks" is just : they 
cannot enter into an elegant description of 
beauty. Of this also again — God bless you l^ 

R. B 



CCCXXXI. 
TO MR. THOMSON. 

[It is se/dom that painting speaks in the spirit of poetry 
Burns perceived some of the blemishes of Allan's illus 
trations : but at that time little nature and less elegance 
entered into th^ •embellishments of books.] 

April, 1796. 
Alas ! my dear Thomson, I fear it will be 
some time ere I tune my lyre again ! *' By 
Babel streams I have sat and wept" almost ever 
since I wrote you last ; I have only known ex- 
istence by the pressure of the heavy hand of 
sickness, and have counted time by the reper- 
cussions of pain ! Rheumatism, cold, and fevci 
have formed to me a terrible combination, i 
close my eyes in misery, and open them without 
hope. I look on the vernal day, and say witb 
poor Fergusson, 

" Say, wheretore has an all-indulgent heaven 
Light to the comfortless and wretched given V 

This will be delivered to you by Mrs. Hyslop, 
landlady of the Globe Tavern here, which for 
these many years has been my howff, and Tyhero 

2 Our poet never explained what name he would hav« 
Bubstituted for Chloris.— Mr. Thomson. 



498 



GENEilAI CORRESPONDENCE 



our friend Clarke and I have had many a merry 
squeeze. I am highly delighted with Mr. 
Allan's etchings. "Woo'd an' married an' a'," 
is admirable ! The grouping is beyond all 
praise. The expression of the figures, conform- 
able to the story in the ballad, is absolutely 
faultless perfection. I next admire ** Turnim- 
si,ike." What I like least is *' Jenny said to 
JDck?7 ' Besides the female being in her ap- 
pearance * * * *, if you take her stooping into 
the account, she is at least two inches taller 
than her lover. Poor Cleghorn ! I sincerely 
sympathize with him. Happy I am to think 
that he yet has a well-grounded hope of health 
and enjoyment in this world. As for me — but 
that is a sad subject. R. B. 



CCCXXXII. 
TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The genius of the poet triumphed over pain and want, 
-his last songs are as tender and as true as any of his 
early compositions.] 

My dear Sir, 

I ONCE mentioned to you an air which I have 
long admired — '* Here's a health to them that's 
awa, hiney," but I forget if you took any notice 
of it. I have just been trying to suit it with 
verses, and I beg leave to recommend the air to 
your attention once more. I have only begun 
it. 

[Here follow the first three stanzas of the song, be- 
ginning, 

•Here's a health to ane I loe dear ;' 

th« fourth was found among the poet's MSS. after his 
death] 

R. B. 



cccxxxn:. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

(••Oi-a lewars, whom the poet introduces to Thomson, 
flras » rother gauger, and a kind, warm-hearted gentle- 
KfiR is»Bsie Lewars was his sister, and at this time but 
H "^er teens 

This will be delivered by Mr. Lewars, a 
jroung fellow of uncommon merit. As he will 
be a day or two in town, you will have leisure, 
!f you choose, to write me by him : and if you 

1 Song CCLXVII. 



have a spare half-hour to spend with him, I 
shall place your kindness to my a- jount. \ 
have no copies of the songs I have sent you, 
and I have taken a fancy to review them all, 
and possibly may mend some of them ; so when 
you have complete leisure, I will thank you foi 
either the originals or copies.^ I had rather b« 
the author of five well-written songs than of ten 
otherwise. I have great hopes that the genial 
influence of the approaching summer will «e( 
me to rights, but as yet I cannot boast of re- 
turning health. I have now reason to believe 
that my complaint is a flying gout — a sad buei- 
ness ! 

Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and remem- 
ber me to him. 

This should have been delivered to you a 
month ago. I am still very poorly, but should 
like much to hear from you. 

R B- 



cccxxxiv. 



TO MRS. RIDDEL, 

Who had desired him to go to the Birth-Day As- 
sembly on that day to show his loyalty. 

[This is the last letter which the poet wrote to thii 
accomplished lady.] 

Dumfries, 4tth June, 1796. 

I AM in such miserable health as to be utterly 
incapable of showing my loyalty in any way. 
Rackt as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every 
face with a greeting like that of Balak to Ba- 
laam — " Come, curse me Jacob ; and come, defy 
me Israel!" So say I — Come, curse me that 
east wind ; and come, defy me the north! Would 
you have me in such circumstances copy you 
out a love-song ? 

I may perhaps see you on Saturday, but 1 
will not be at the ball. — Why should I? "maa 
delights not me, nor woman either !'* Can you 
supply me with the song, " Let us all be un- 
happy together ?" -do if you can, and oblige, 
le fauvre miserable R. B. 



2 << It is needless to say that this revisal BumfldidiHV 
live to perform." — Cub h IB. 



cccxxxv. 

TO MR. CLARKE, 

SCHOOLMASTER, FORFAR. 

[Who will say, after reading the following distressing 
«<ttor, lately come to light, that Burns did not die in 
great pcve..y J 

Dumfries, 26th June, 1796. 
My dear Clarke, 
SriLL, still 1 le victim of affliction ! Were you 
t) see the emaciated figure who now holds the 
p-en to you, you would not know your old friend. 
Whether I shall ever get about again, is only 
known to Him, thr Great Unknown, whose crea- 
ture I am. Alas, Clarke ! I begin to fear the 
worst. 

As to my iniividual self, I am tranquil, and 
would despise myself, if I wer^not ; but Burns's 
poor widow, and half-a-dozen of his dear little 
ones — helpless orphans ! — there I am weak as a 
woman's tear. Enough of this! 'Tis half of my 
disease. 

I duly received your last, enclosing the note. 
It came extremely in time, and I am much 
obliged by your punctuality. Again I must 
request you to do me the same kindness. Be 
BO very good, as, by return of post, to enclose 
me another note. I trust you can do it without 
Inconvenience, and it will seriously oblige me. 
If I must go, I shall leave a few friends behind 
me, whom I shall regret while consciousness 
remains. I know I shall live in their remem- 
brance. Adieu, dear Clarke. That I shall ever 
see you again, is, I am afraid, highly improba- 
ble. R. B. 



CCCXXXVI. 
TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, 

EDINBURGH. 

[*' It this hnmble and delicate manner did poor Burns 
usk for a copy of a work of which he was principally the 
founder, and to which he had contrilmted gratuitously 
co: leM than one hundred and eighty-four original, 
ultr-ei and collected song's ! The editor has seen one 
Dundred and eighty transcribed by his own hand, for the 
'Museum.'" — Cromek. AVill it be believed that this 
•hunr.oie request" of Burns was not complied with! 
The work was intended as a present to Jessie Lewars.] 

Dumfries, ith July, 1796. 

How are you, my dear friend, and how comes 

Dn your f fth volume ? You may probably think 

that for some time past I have neglected you 

«nd youT work ; but, alas ! the hand of pain, and 



sorrow, and care, has these many months laia 

heavy on me ! Personal and domestic affliction 
have almost entirely banished that alacrity and 
life with which I used to woo the rural muse of 
Scotia. In the meantime let us finish what we 
have so well begun. 

* * * * 

You are a good, worthy, honest fellow, 4nd 
have a good right to live in this world — becausi 
you deserve it. Many a merry meeting this 
publication has given us, and possibly it may 
give us more, though, alas ! I fear it. This pro- 
tracting, slow, consuming illness which hangs 
over me, will, I doubt much, my ever dear 
friend, arrest my sun before he has well reached 
his middle career, and will turn over the poet 
to other and far more important concerns than 
studying the brilliancy of wit, or the pathos of 
sentiment ! However, hope is the cordial of the 
human heart, and I endeavour to cherish it aa 
well as I can. 

Let me hear from you as soon as convenient. 
— Your work is a great one ; and now that it ia 
finished, I see, if we were to begin again, two 
or three things that might be mended ; yet I 
will venture to prophesy, that to future agea 
your publication will be the text-book and 
standard of Scottish song and music. 

I am ashamed to ask another favour of you, 
because you have been so very good already ; 
but my wife has a very particular friend of hers, 
a young lady who sings well, to whom she 
wishes to present the " Scots Musical Museum." 
If you have a spare copy, will you be so oblig- 
ing as to send it by the very first fly, as I am 
anxious to have it soon. 

The gentleman, Mr. Lewars, a particulai 
friend of mine, will bring out any proofs (if 
they are ready) or any message you may have. 
I am extremely anxious for your work, as in- 
deed I am for everything concerning you, and 
your welfare. 



Farewell, 



R. B. 



P. S. You should have had this when Mr, 
Lewars called on you, but his saddle-bags miii" 
carried. 



CCCXXXVII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

[Few of the last requests of the poet were effeft'ial: 
Clarke, it is believed, did not send the second nott ht 
wrote for : Johnson did not send the copy of the Museuff 



bm 



GENEHAL CORRESPONDENCE 



whi^h he requested, and th« Commissioners of Excise 
'efuBv 'i the continuance of his full salary.] 

J]row, Sea-hathing quarters, 1th July, 1796. 
My dear Cunningham, 

I aiioiciVED yours here this moment, and am 
indeed highly flattered with the approbation of 
the licei-ary circle you mention ; a literary 
circle Inferior to none in the two kingdoms. 
A-las ! >Tiy friend, I fear the voice of the bard 
will sotMi be heard among you no more ! For 
these eight or ten months I have been ailing, 
gometiwes bedfast and sometimes not ; but these 
last three months I have been tortured with an 
excruciating rheumatism, which has reduced 
me to nearly the last stage. You actually would 
not know me if you saw me — Pale, emaciated, 
and so feeble, as occasionally to need help from 
my chair — my spirits fled ! fled 1 but I can no 
more on the subject — only the medical folks tell 
me that my last only chance is bathing and 
country-quarters, and riding. — The deuce of the 
matter is this ; when an exciseman is off duty, 
his salary is reduced to 35Z. instead of 50Z. — 
What way, in the name of thrift, shall I main- 
tain myself, and keep a horse in country quar- 
ters — with a wife and five children at home, on 
35Z. ? I mention this, because I had intended to 
beg your utmost interest, and that of all the 
friends you can muster, to move our commis- 
sioners of excise to grant me the fuH salary; I 
dare say you know them all personally. If they 
do not grant it me, I must lay my account with 
an exit truly en po'ete — if I die not of disease, 
I must perish with, hunger. 

I have sent you one of the songs ; the other 
my memory does not serve me with, and I have 
no copy here ; but I shall be at home soon, when 
I will send it you. — Apropos to being at home, 
Mrs, Burns threatens, in a week or two, to add 
one more to my paternal charge, which, if of 
the right gender, I intend shall be introduced 
to the world by the respectable designation of 
Alexander Cunningham Burns. My last was 
James Glencairn, so you can have no objection 
to the company of nobility. Farewell. 

E. B. 



CCCXXXVIII. 

TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

[This letter contained heavy news for Gilbert Burns : 
the loss of a brother whom he dearly loved and admired, 
i^as not all, t. ough the worst.] 



10^^ July, 1796. 
Deak Brother, 

It will be no very pleasing news to you to b« 
told that I am dangerously ill, and not likely to 
get better. An inveterate rheumatism has re 
duced me to such a state of debility, and my 
appetite is so totally gone, that I can scarcely 
stand on my legs. I have been a week at sea- 
bathing, and I will continue there, or in a 
friend's house in the country, all the summer 
God keep my wife and children : if I am taken 
from their head, they will be poor indteU. I 
have contracted one or two serious debts, partly 
from my illness these many months, partly from 
too much thoughtlessness as to expense, when 
I came to town, that will cut in too much on the 
little I leave them in your hands. Remember 
me to my mother.. 

Yours, R. B 



CCOXXXIX. 



TO MR. JAMES ARMOUR, 

MASON, MAUCHLINB. 

[The original letter is now in a safe sanctuary, the 
hands of the poet's son, Major James Glencairn Bur:as.| 

July 10th [1796.] 
For Heaven's sake, and as you value the 
we[l]fare of your daughter and my wife, do, 
my dearest Sir, write to Fife, to Mrs. Armour 
to come if possible. My wife thinks she can 
yet reckon upon a fortnight. The medical people 
order me, as I value my existence, to fly to sea- 
bathing and country-quarters, so it is ten thou- 
sand chances to one that I shall not be within 
a dozen miles of her when her hour eomes. 
What a situation for her, poor girl, without a 
single friend by her on such a serious moment. 
I have now been a week at salt-water, and 
though I think I have got some good by it, yet 
I have some, secret fears that this business wil! 
be dangerous if not fatal. 

Your most affectionate son, 
R. B. 



CCCXL. 
TO MRS. BURNS. 

[Sea-bathing, I have heard skilful men say, was inju- 
dicious : but it was felt that Burns was on his way to th« 



grave, and as he desired to try the influence of sea-water, 
M well as saa-dir, his wishes were not opposed.] 

Lrow, Thursday. 
My dearest Love, 

I delated writing until I could tell you what 
effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. It 
would be injustice to deny that it has eased my 
pains, and I think has strengthened me ; but 
my appetite is still extremely bad. No flesh 
nor fish can I swallow : porridge and milk are 
the only things I can taste. I am very happy 
to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are all 
well. My very best and kindest compliments 
to her, and to all the children. I will see you 
on Sunday. 

Your affectionate husband, 

KB. 



CCCXLI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

["The poet had the pleasure of receiving a satisfac- 
tory explanation of this lady's silence," says Currie, 
•' and an assurance of the continuance of her friendship 
to his widow and children."] 

Brow, Saturday, 12th July, 1796. 
Madam, 
I HAVE written you so often, without receiv- 
ing any answer, that I would not trouble you 
again, but for the circumstances in which I am. 
An illness which has long hung about me, in all 
probability will speedily send me beyond that 
bourn whence no traveller returns. Your friend- 
Bhip, with which for many years you honoured 
me, was a friendship, dearest to my soul. Your 
conversation, and especially your correspon- 
dence, were at once highly entertaining and in- 
Etructive. With what pleasure did I use to 
break up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds 
one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. 
Farewell ! ! I 

R. B. 



CCCXLII. 
T: MR. THOMSON. 

[Thomson instantly complied with the dying poet's 
•quest, and transmitted the exact sum which he re- 
•nested, viz. five pounds, by return of post: he was 
i-'raid of offending the pride of Burns, otherwise he 
irould, he says, have sent a larger sum. He has not, 
lowever, t-M us h'vw much he sent to the all but deso- 



late widow and children, when death had released L;/;! 
from all dread of the poet's indignation.] 

Brow, on the Solway-firth, \2th July, 1796. 
After all my boasted independence, curs< 
necessity compels me to implore you fcr fiv€ 
pounds. A cruel wretch of a haberdasher, tc 
whom I owe an account, taking it into lis Iieai 
that I am dying, has commenced a procfisa, 
and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, fo4 
God's sake, send me that sum, and that by re^ 
turn of post. Forgive me this earnestness, but 
the horrors of a jail have made me half dis- 
tracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously ; 
for, upon returning health, I hereby promisa 
and engage to furnish you "v^ith five pounds' 
worth of the neatest song-genius you have seen 
I tried my hand on *' Rothemurche" this morn 
ing. The measure is so difficult that it is im- 
possible to infuse much genius into the lines ; 
they are on the other side. Forgive, forgiv* 
me! 

Fairest maid on Devon's banks.* 

R. B 



CCCXLIII. 



TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, 

WRITER, MONTROSE. 

[The good, the warm-hearted James Burness sent hia 
cousin ten pounds on the 29th of July — he sent five pounds 
afterwards to the family, and offered to take one of the 
boys, and educate him in his own professionof a writer 
All this was unknown to the world till lately.] 

Brow, \2th July. 
My dear Cousin, 
When you offered me money assistance, little 
did I think I should want it so soon. A rasca* 
of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable 
bill, taking it into his head that I am dying, has 
commenced process against me, and will infalli- 
bly put my emaciated body into jail. W' ill you 
be so good as to accommodate me, and that by 
return of post, with ten pounds ? -0 James I did 
you know the pride of my heart, you would f-asl 
doubly for me ! Alas ! I am not use J tc beg I 
The worst of it is, my health was coming about 
finely; you know, and my physician assured me, 
that melancholy and low spirits are half my dis 
ease; guess then my horrors since this business 
began. If I had it settled, I would be, I think, 
quite well in a manner. How shall I use thf 



Sons: CCLXVIII 



502 



REMAEKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



language to you, do not disappoint me ! but 
strong necessity's curst command. 

I have been thinking over and over my bro- 
ther's affairs, and I fear I must cut him up ; but 
on this I will correspond at another time, par- 
ticularly as I shall [require] your advice. 

Forgive me for once more mentioning by 
return of post ; — save me from the horrors of a 
jail ! 

My compliments to my friend James, and to 
all the rest. I do not know what I have writ- 
ten. The subject is so horrible I dare not look 
it over again. 

Farewell. 

R. B. 



CCCXLIV. 

TO JAMES GRACIE, ESQ. 

f James Gracie was, for some time, a banker in Dum 
fries : his eldest son, a fine, high-spirited youth, fell bjl 
a rifle-ball in America, when leading the troops to thi 
attack on Washington.] 

Brow, Wednesday Morning, IQth July, 1796. 

My dear Sir, 
It would [be] doing high injustice to thia 
place not to acknowledge that my rheumatisms 
have derived great benefits from it already; 
but alas ! my loss of appetite still continues. I 
shall not need your kind offer this week, and I 
return to town the beginning of next week, it 
not being a tide-week. I am detaining a man 
in a burning hurry. 

So God bless you. E. B. 



EEMAEKS 



ON 



SCOTTISH SONGS AND BALLADS, 



[The following Strictures on Scottish Song exist in the handwriting of Burns, m the interleaved copy of Johnson's 
Musical Museum, which the poet presented to Captain Riddel, of Friar's Carse ; on the death of Mrs. Riddel, these 
prdcious volumes passed into the hands of her niece, Eliza Bayley, of Manchester, who kindly permitted Mr. Croraek 
to transcribe and publish them in the Reliques.] 



THE HIGHLAND QUEEN. 
This Highland Queen, music and poetry, was 
composed by Mr. M'Vicar, purser of the Sole- 
bay man-of-war. — This I had from Dr. Black- 
lock. 



BESS THE GAWKIE. 

This song shows that the Scottish muses did 
not all leave us when we lost Ramsay and Os- 
wald, as I have good reason to believe that the 
verses and music are both posterior to the days 
of these two gentlemen. It is a beautiful song, 
and in the genuine Scots taste. We have few 
oastoral compositions, I mean the pastoral of 
nature, that; are equal to thia. 



OH, OPEN THE DOOR, LORD GREGORY. 
It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, Ren- 
frew, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkcudbright, and Dum- 
fries-shires, there is scarcely an old song or 
tune which, from the title, &c., can be guessed 
to belong to, or be the production of these 
countries. This, I conjecture, is one of thest 
very few; as the ballad, which is a long one^ 
is called, both by tradition and in printed col- 
lections, " The Lass of Lochroyan," which I 
take to be Lochroyan, in Galloway. 



THE BANKS OP THE TWEED. 

This song is one of the many attempts that 

English composers have made to imitate the 

Scottish manner, and which I shall, in thes* 

strictures, beg leave to distinguish by the aD' 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



50d 



^ellation of Anglo-Scottish productions. The 
music is pretty good, but the verses are just 
fcboTe contempt. 



THE BEDS OF SWEET ROSES. 
Thm song as far as I know, for the first time 
ftppearf here in print. — When I was a boy, it 
was 3. very popular song in Ayrshire. I re- 
meii-oer to have heard those fanatics, the Bu- 
shanites, sing some of their nonsensical rhymes, 
which they dignify with the name of hymns, to 
this air. 



ROSLIN CASTLE. 
These beautiful verses were the production 
of a Richard HewH, a young man that Dr. 
Blacklock, to whom I am indebted for the anec- 
f'ote i^ep* for some vearp &8 an amaruensis. I 
do not know wlio is the author of the second 
Bong to the tune. Tytler, in his amusing his- 
tory of Scots music, gives the air to Oswald; 
but in Oswald's own collection of Scots tunes, 
where he affixes an asterisk to those he himself 
composed, he does not make the least claim to 
the tune. 



SAW YE JOHNNIE CUMMIN ? QUO' SHE. 
This song, for genuine humour in the verses, 
and lively originality in the air, is unparalleled. 
I take it to be very old. 



CLOUT THE CALDRON. 

A TBADiTiON is mentioned in the " Bee," that 
the second Bishop Chisholm, of Dunblane, used 
to say, that if he were going to be hanged, 
nothing would soothe his mind so much by the 
way as to hear " Clout the Caldron" played. 

I have met with another tradition, that the 
old 9cng to liis tune, 

<' Hae ye onie pots or pans. 
Or onie broken chanlers," 

was composed on one of the Kenmure family, in 
the cavalier times ; and alluded to an amour he 
had, while under hiding, in the disguise of an 
Itinerant tinker. The air is also known by the 
name of 

" The blacksmith and his apron," 

ffhich from the rhythm, seems to have been a 
ine of some old song to the tune. 



SAW YE MY PEGGY. 

This charming song is much older, and in 
deed superior to Ramsay's verses, *' The Toast,'' 
as he calls them. There is another set of tht 
words, much older still, and which I take to be 
the original one, but though it has a very great 
deal of merit, it is not quite ladies' reading. 

The original words, for thoy can scarcely b< 
called verses, seem to be as follows ; a song f» 
miliar from the cradle to every Scottish ear. 

" Saw ye my Maggie, 
Saw ye my Maggie, 
Saw ye my Maggie 

Linkin o'er the lea ? 

High kilted was she, 
High kilted was she. 
High kilted was she. 

Her coat aboon her knee. 

What mark has your Maggia, 
Whpt. ma.v\ has yoyr Maggie 
Whai mark uas your Maggie, 

That ane may ken her be ?" 

Though it by no means follows that the silliesi 
verses to an air must, for that reason, be the 
original song; yet I take this ballad, of which 
I have quoted part, to be old verses. The two 
songs in Ramsay, one of them evidently his own, 
are never to be met with in the fire-side circle 
of our peasantry ; while that which I take to 
be the old song, is in every shepherd's mouth. 
Ramsay, I suppose, had thought the old ver«i<«i 
unworthy of a place in his collection. 



THE FLOWERS OF EDINBURGH. 

This song is one of the many eflFusions of 
Scots Jacobitism. — The title " Flowers of Edin- 
burgh," has no manner of connexion with the 
present verses, so I suspect there has been an 
older set of words, of which the title is all that 
remains. 

By the bye, it is singular enough that th« 
Scottish muses were all Jacobites.—I have paid 
more attention to every description of Sccta 
songs than perhaps anybody living has dons, 
and I do not recollect one single stanza, or even 
the title of the most trifling Scots air, which has 
the least panegyrical reference to the families 
of Nassau or Brunswick ; while there are hun- 
dreds satirizing them. — This maybe thought no 
panegyric on the Scots Poets, but I mean it as 
such. For myself, I wOuld always take it as a 
compliment to have it said, that my heart ran 
before my head, — and surely the gallant thoutri 



504 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



anfortunate house of Stewart, the kings of our 
fathers for so many heroic ages, is a theme * 
» * * * * 



JAMIE GAY. 
Jamie Gat is another and a tolerable Anglo- 
ftjjottish piece. 



MY DEAR JOCKIE. 
Anothee Anglo-Scottish production. 



It is self-evident that the first four lines of 
this song are part of a song more ancient than 
Ramsay's beautiful verses which are annexed 
to them. As music is the language of nature ; 
and poetry, particularly songs, are always less 
or more localized (if I may be allowed the verb) 
by some of the modifications of time and place, 
this is the reason why so many of our Scots 
airs have outlived their original, and perhaps 
many subsequent sets of verses ; except a single 
name or phrase, or sometimes one or two lines, 
simply to distinguish the tunes by. 

To this day among people who know nothing 
of Ramsay's verses, the following is the song, 
and all the song that ever I heard : 

" (iin ye meet a bonnie lassie, 

Gie her a kiss and let her g-ae ; 
But gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, 
Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae. 

Fye, gae rub her, rub her, rub her, 
Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae : 

An' gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, 
Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae." 



THE LASS O' LIVISTON. 
The old song, in three eight-line stanzas, is 
Kell known, and has merit as to wit and 
humour ; but it is rather unfit for insertion. — 
It begins, 

"• The Bonnie lass o' Liviston, 

Her name ye ken, her name ye ken, 
And she has written in h#r contract 
To lie her lane, to lie her lane." 
&c. &c. 



THE RAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MOOR. 
Ramsay found the first line of this song, which 
Had been preserved as the title of the charming 



air, and then composed the rest of the verses tc 
suit that line. This has always a finer effecl 
than composing English words, or words with an 
idea foreign to the spirit of the old title. Where 
old titles of songs convey any idea at all, it will 
generally be found to be quite in the spirit of 
the air. 



JOCKIE »S GRAY BREEKS. 
Though this has certainly every evidence cl 
being a Scottish air, yet there is a well-known 
tune and song in the north of Ireland, called 
** The Weaver and his Shuttle 0," which, though 
sung much quicker, is every note the very tune. 



THE HAPPY MARRIAGE. 
Another, but very pretty Anglo-Scottisn 
piece. 



THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL. 
In Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland, 
this song is localized (a verb I must use for 
want of another to express my idea) somewhere 
in the north of Scotland, and likewise is claimed 
by Ayrshire. — The following anecdote I had 
from the present Sir William Cunningham, of 
Robertland, who had it from the last John, Earl 
of Loudon. The then Earl of Loudon, and father 
to Earl John before mentioned, had Ramsay at 
Loudon, and one day walking together by the 
banks of Irvine water, near New-Mills, at a 
place called Patie's Mill, they were struck with 
the appearance of a beautiful country girl. His 
lordship observed that she would be a fine theme 
for a song. — Allan lagged behind in returning 
to Loudon Castle, and at dinner produced this 
identical song. 



THE TURNIMSPIKE. 
There is a stanza of this excellent song foi 
local humour, omitted in this set. — Whei© 1 
have placed the asterisms. 

" They tak the horse then by te head 
And tere tey mak her stan', man; 
Me tell tern, me hae seen te day, 
Tev no had sic comman', man.' 



HIGHLAND LADDIE. 
As this was a favourite theme with our later 
Scottish muses, there are several airs end songi 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



501 



»f that name. That which I take to be the old- 
est, is to be found in the " Musical Museum," 
beginning, " I hae be^ at Crookie-den." One 
reason for my thinking so is, that Oswald has 
it in his collection, by th6 name of " The Auld 
Highland Laddie." It is also known by the 
name of "Jinglan Johnie," which is a well- 
known song of four or five stanzas, and seems 
to be an earlier song than Jacobite times. As 
& proof of this, it is little known to the pea- 
santry by the name of "Highland Laddie;" 
while everybody knows '* Jinglan Johnie." The 
song begins 

" Jinglan John, the meickle man, 

He met wi' a lass was blythe and bonie." 

Another *' Highland Laddie" is also in the 
*' Museum," vol. v., which I take to be Ram- 
say's original, as he has borrowed the chorus — 
** my bonie Highland lad," &c. It consists 
of three stanzas, besides the chorus ; and has 
humour in its composition — it is an excellent, 
but somewhat licentious song. — It begins 

"As I cam o'er Cairney moaut, 
And down among the blooming heather." 

This air, and the common " Highland Laddie," 
seem only to be different sets. 

Another '* Highland Laddie," also in the 
»* Museum," vol. v., is the tune of several Jaco- 
bite fragments. One of these old songs to it, 
only exists, as far as I know, in these four 
lines — 

" Where hae ye been a' day, 

Bonie laddie, Highland laddie? 
Down the back o' Bell's brae, 

Courtin Maggie, courtin Maggie." 

Another of this name is Dr. Arne's beautiful 
air, called the new " Highland Laddie." 



THE GENTLE SWAIN. 
T? sing such a beautiful air to such exe- 
erable vers3S, is downright prostitution of com- 
sncn sease 1 The Scots verses indeed are tole- 
rable. 



HE STOLE MY TENDER HEART AWAY. 
This is an Anglo-Scottish production, but by 
bo means a ba^j one. 



FAIREST OF THE FAIR. 
It is too barefaced to take Dr. Percy's charm* 
ing song, and by means of transposing a fe^ 
English words into Scots, to offer to pass it fol 
a Scots song. — I was not acquainted with th« 
editor until the first volume was nearly finished, 
else, had I known in time, I would have pr« 
vented such an impudent absurdity. 



THE BLAITHRIE O'T. 
The following is a set of this song, which was 
the earliest song I remember to have got by 
heart. When a child, an old woman sung it to 
me, and I picked it up, every word, at first 
hearing. 

" O Willy, weel I mind, I lent you my hand 
To sing you a song which you did me command ; 
But my memory's so bad I had almost forgot 
That you called it the gear and the blaithrie o't.— 

I'll not sing about confusion, delusion or pride, 
I'll sing about a laddie was for a virtuous bride i 
For virtue is an ornament that time will never rot. 
And preferable to gear and the blaithrie o't.— 

Tho' my lassie hae aae scarlets or silks to put on, 
We envy not the greatest that sits upon the throne j 
I wad rather hae my lassie, tho' she cam in her smock. 
Than a princess wi' the gear and the blaithrie o't.— 

Tho' we hae nae horses or menzies at command, 
We will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi' our hand; 
And when w^earied without rest, we'll find it sweet ia 

any spot, 
And we'll value not the gear and the blaithrie o't. — 

If we hae ony babies, we'll count them as lent ; 
Hae we less, hae we mair, we will ay be content ; 
For they say they hae mair pleasure that wins bu 

groat. 
Than tiie miser wi' his gear and the blaithrie o't. — 

I'll not meddle wi' th' affairs of the kirk or the queen 
They're nae matters for a sang, let them sink, let them 

swim; 
On your kirk I'll ne'er encroach, but I'll hold it st**. 

remote, 
Sae tak this for the gear and the blaitiirie o't." 



MAY EVE, OR KATE OF ABERDEEN. 
" Kate of Aberdeen" is, I believe, the work 
of poor Cunningham the player; of whom the 
following anecdote", though told before, deserves 
a recital. A fat dignitary of the church com- 
ing past Cunningham one Sunday, as the pooi 
poet was bvisy plying a fishing-rod in soma 
stream near Durham, his native country, hi» 
I reverence reprimanded Cunningham very se 



tterely for such an occupation on such a day. 
The poor poet, with that inoffensive gentleness 
of manners which was his peculiar characteristic, 
replied, that he hoped God and his reverence 
would forgive his seeming profanity of that 
sacred day, ** as he had no dinner to eat, but what 
lay at the bottom of that pool /" This, Mr. Woods, 
the player, who knew Cunningham well, and 
esteemed him much, assured me was true. 



TWEED SIDE. 

In Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, he tells us 
that about thirty of the songs in that publica- 
tion were the works of some young gentlemen 
of his acquaintance ; which songs are marked 
with the letters D. C. &c. — Old Mr. Tytler of 
Woodhouselee, the worthy and able defender of 
the beauteous Queen of Scots, told me that the 
tijngfc, _aar^'^d C, ^n tjo Tta tabts^ wei'io tht f^om 
position of a Mr. Crawfurd, of the house of 
Achnames, who was afterwards unfortunately 
drowned coming from France. — As Tytler was 
most intimately acquainted with Allan Ramsay, 
I think the anecdote may be depended on. Of 
consequence, the beautiful song of Tweed Side 
is Mr. Crawfurd's, and indeed does great honour 
to his poetical talents. He was a Robert Craw- 
furd; the Mary he celebrates was a Mary 
Stewart, of the Castle-Milk family, afterwards 
married to a Mr. John Ritchie. 

I have seen a song, calling itself the original 
Tweed Side, and said to have been composed by 
a Lord Yester. It consisted of two stanzas, of 
which I still recollect the first — 

" When Maggy and I vras acquaint, 

I carried my noddle fu' hie ; 
Nae lintw^hite on a' the green plain, 

Nor gowdspink sae happy as me : 
But I saw her sae fair and I lo'ed: 

I woo'd, but I came nae great speed; 
So now I maun wander abroad, 

And lay my banes far frae the Tweed."— 



THE POSY. 
It appears evident to me that Oswald com- 
posed his Roslin Castle on the modulation of this 
air. — In the second part of Oswald's, in the 
three first bars, he has either hit on a wonder- 
ful similarity to, or else he has entirely borrowed 
the three first bars of the old air ; and the 
close of both tunes is almost exactly the same. 
the old verses to which it was sung, when I 



took down the notes from a country girVs 
voice, had no great merit. — The following is ■ 
specimen : 

" There was a pretty May, and a milkin she went; 
Wi' her red rosy cheeks, and her coal black hair ; 
And she has met a young man a comin o'fir the beLt} 
With a double and adieu to thee, fair May. 

O where are ye goin, my ain pretty May, 
Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal black hair? 

Unto the yowes a milkin, kind sir, she says, 
With a double and adieu to thee, fair May. 

What if I gang alang with thee, my ain pretty May, 
Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal-black hair; 

Wad I be aught the warse o' that, kind sir, she say* 
With a double and adieu to thee, fair May. 



MARY'S DREAM. 
The Mary here alluded to is generally sup- 
posed to be Miss Mary Macghie, daughter to 
ih.ij Xiaiid of ii^rdh., ^n Gadoway. ihe poet was 
a Mr. John Lowe, who likewise wrote another 
beautiful song, called Pompey's Ghost. — I have 
seen a poetic epistle from him in North America, 
where he now is, or lately was, to a lady in 
Scotland. — By the strain of the verses, it ap 
peared that they allude to some love affair. 



THE MAID THAT TENDS THE GOATS. 

BY MR. DUDGEON. 

This Dudgeon is a respectable farmer's son 
in Berwickshire. 



I WISH MY LOVE WERE IN A MIRE. 
I NEVER heard more of the words of this old 
song than the title. 



ALLAN WATER. 
This Allan Water, which the composer of tht 
music has honoured with the name of the air, 1 
have been told is Allan Water, in Strathaliatt, 



THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE. 
This is one of the most beautiful songs in the 
Scots, or any other language. — The two lines, 

" And will I see his face again ! 
And will I hear him speak !" 

as well as the two preceding ones, are unequalled 
almost by anything I ever heard or read : and 
the lines. 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



501 



" The present moment is our ain, 
The neist we never saw," — 

are worthy of tlie first poet. It is long posterior 
♦■,0 Ramsay's days. About the year 1771, or 72, 
It came first on the streets as a ballad ; and I 
suppose the composition of the song was not 
much anUrior to that period. 



TARRY WOO. 
This is a very pretty song ; but I fancy that 
the first half stanza, as well as the tune itself, 
are much older than the rest of the words. 



GRAMACHREE. 
The song of Gramachree was composed by a 
Mr. Poe, a counsellor at law in Dublin. This 
anecdote "^ "ha*' "roil n, gea'tleme'ii w^"!?> krew tt^ 
lady, the •' Molly," who is the subject of the 
Bong, and to whom Mr. Poe sent the first manu- 
Bcript of his most beautiful verses. I do not 
remember any single line that has more true 
pathos than 

'< How can she break that honest heart that wears her in 
its core!" 

But as the song is Irish, it had nothing to do 
m this collection. 



THE COLLIER'S BONNIE LASSIE. 
The first half stanza is much older than the 
lays of Ramsay. — The old words began thus : 

" The collier has a dochter, and, O, she's wonder bonnie ! 
A laird he was that sought her, rich baith in lands 
and money. 
She wad na hae a laird, nor wad she be a lady, 
But she wad hae a collier, the colour o' her daddie." 



MARY SCOTT, THE FLOWER OF YARROW. 

Mr. Robertson, in his statistical account of 
the parish of Selkirk, says,, that Mary Scott, 
the Flower of Yarrow, was descended from th« 
Dryhope, and married into the Harden family. 
Her daughter was married to a predeccfisor of 
the present Sir Francis Elliot; of Stob.os» an(J 
of the late Lord Heathfield. 

There is a circumstance in their contract Oi 
marriage that merits attention, and it stronglj 
marks the predatory spirit of the times. The 
father-in-law agrees to keep his daughter for 
some time after the marriage ; for which the 
son-in-law binds himself to give him the profits 
of the first Michaelmas moon 1 



MY AIN KIND DEARIE— 0. 
The old words of this song are omitted here, 
ttiough much more beautiful than these in- 
serted ; which were mostly composed by poor 
FerguBSon, in one of his merry humours. The 
pld wtrds began thus : 

" I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O, 
I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie, O. 
Altlio' the night were ne'er sae wat, 

And I were ne'er sae weary, O ; 
Vli rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, 

eHy ain kind dearie, O."— 



DOWN THE BURN. DAVIE. 
X HAVE Uxjcn .iifoiiixcd, *ha\, the ^nc of 
*' Down the burn, Davie," was the composition 
of David Maigh, keeper of the blood slough 
hounds, belonging to the Laird of Riddel, in 
Tweeddale. 



BLINK o'er the BURN, SWEET BETTIE. 
The old words, all that I remember, are,- 

"Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 

It is a cauld winter night : 
It rains, it hails, it thunders, 

The moon she gies nae light : 
It's a' for the sake o' sweet Betty, 

That ever I tint my way; 
Sweet, let me lie beyond thee 

Until it be break o' day. — 

O, Betty will bake my bread. 

And Betty will brew my ale, 
And Betty will be my .ove, 

When I come over the dale : 
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 

Blink over the burn to me. 
And while I hae life, dear lassie, 

My ain sweet Betty thou's be." 



THE BLITHSOME BRIDAI. 
I FIND the ** Blithsome Bridal'* in Jamefl 
Watson's collection of Scots poems, printed at 
Edinburgh, in 1706. This collection, the pub- 
lisher says, is the first of its nature which has 
been published in our own native Scots dialeot 
— it is now extremely scarce. 



JOHN HAY'S BONNIE LASSIE. 
John Hat's "Bonnie Lassie" was daughter 
of John. Hay, Earl or Marquis of Tweeddale, 
and late Countess Dowager of Roxburgh. — She 
died at Broomlands, near Kelso, some time be- 
tween the years 1720 and 1740. 



THE BONIE BRUCKET LASSIE. 
ThiJ two first lines of this song are all of it 
that is old. The rest of the song, as well as 
those songs in the Museum marked T., are the 
works of an obscure, tippling, but extraordinary 
body of the name of Tytler, commonly known 
by the name of Balloon Tytler, from his having 
projected a balloon ; a mortal, who, though he 
drudges about Edinburgh as a common printer, 
with leaky shoes, a sky-lighted hat, and knee- 
buckles as unlike as George-by-the-grace-of- 
God, and Solomon-the-son-of-David ; yet that 
same unknown drunken mortal is author and 
compiler of three-fourths of Elliot's pompous 
Encyclopedia Britannica, which he composed 
at half a guinea a week ! 



SAE MERRY AS WE TWA HA'E BEEN. 
This song is beautiful. — The chorus in parti- 
cular is truly pathetic. I never could learn 
anything of its author. 

CHORUS. 

" Sae merry as we twa ha'e been, 
Sae meny as we twa ha'e been ; 
My heart is like for to break, 
When I think on the days we ha'e seen." 



THE BANKS OF FORTH. 
This air is Oswald's. 



THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. 
This is another beautiful song of Mr. Craw- 
ttiffd's composition. In the neighbourhood of 
Traquair, tradition still shows the old " Bush ;" 
ifhich, when I saw it, in the year 1787, was 
composed of eight or nine ragged birches. The 
Rarl of Traquair has planted a clump of trees 
aear by, which he calls *' The New Bush." 



OROMLET'S LILT. 

The following interesting account of thii 
plaintive dirge was communicated to Mr. Kid- 
del by Alexander Eraser Tytler, Esq., of Wood- 
houselee. 

*' In the latter end of the sixteenth century, 
the Chisolms were proprietors of the estate of 
Cromlecks (now possessed by the Drummonds). 
The eldest son of that family was very muck 
attached to a daughter of Sterling of Ardoch, 
commonly known by the name of Fair Helen of 
Ardoch. 

"At that time the opporiunuies of meeting 
betwixt the sexes were more rare, consequently 
more sought after than now ; and the Scottish 
ladies, far from priding themselves on extensive 
literature, were thought sufSciently book-learned 
if they could make out the Scriptures in their 
mother-tongue. Writing was entirely out of 
the line of female education. At that period 
the most of our young men of family sought a 
fortune, or found a grave, in France. Cromlus, 
when he went abroad to the war, was obliged 
to leave the management of his correspondence 
with his mistress to a lay-brother of the monas- 
tery of Dumblain, in the immediate neighbour- 
hood of Cromleck, and near Ardoch. This 
man, unfortunately, was deeply sensible of 
Helen's charms. He artfully prepossessed her 
with stories to the disadvantage of Cromlus ; 
and, by misinterpreting or keeping up the letters 
and messages intrusted to his care, he entirely 
irritated both. All connexion was broken off 
betwixt them ; Helen was inconsolable, and 
Cromlus has left behind him, in the ballad 
called 'Cromlet's Lilt,' a proof of the elegance 
of his genius, as well as the steadiness of hia 
love. 

*' When the artful monk thought time had 
sufficiently softened Helen's sorrow, he pro- 
posed himself as a lover : Helen was obdurate : 
but at last, overcome by the persuasions of her 
brother, with whom she lived, and who, having 
a family of thirty-one children, was probably 
very well pleased to get her off his hands — she 
submitted, rather than consented to the sere- 
mony ; but there her compliance ended ; and, 
when forcibly put into bed, she started quite 
frantic from it, screaming out, that after three 
gentle taps on the wainscot, at the bed-head, 
she heard Cromlus's voice, crying, ♦ Helen, 
Helen, mind me !' Cromlus soon after coming 
home, the treachery of the confidant was difl 



REMAEKS v)N SCOTTISH SONG. 



509 



covered, — her marriage disannulled, — and Helen 

became Lady Cromlecks." 

N. B. Marg. Murray, mother to these thirty- 
one children, was daughter to Murray of Strewn, 
one of the seventeen sons of Tullybardine, and 
wuose youngest son, commonly called the Tutor 
of Ardoch, died in the year 1715, aged 111 
years. 



MY DEARIE^ IF THOU DIE. 
Another beautiful song of Crawfurd's. 



SHE ROSE AND LOOT ME IN. 
The old set of this song, which is still to be 
found in printed collections, is much prettier 
than this ; but somebody, I believe it was Ram- 
say, took it into his head to clear it of some 
seeming indelicacies, and made it at once more 
chaste and more dull. 



GO TO THE EWE-BIJGHTS, MARION. 

I AM not sure if this old and charming air be 
of the South, as is commonly said, or of the 
North of Scotland. There is a song, apparently 
as ancient as "Ewe-bughts, Marion," which 
sings to the same tune, and is evidently of the 
North. — It begins thus : 

" The Lord o' Gordon had three dochters, 
Mary, Marget, and Jean, 
They wad na stay at bonie Castle Gordon, 
But awa to Aberdeen." 



LEWIS GORDON. 
This air is a proof how one of our Scots tunes 
comes to be composed out of another. I have 
one of the earliest copies of the song, and it 
has prefixed, 

« Tune of Tarry Woo."— 
Of which tune a dififerent set has insensibly 
raried into a different air. — To a Scots critic, 
the pathos of tli e line, 

« Tho' his back be at the wa'," 
—must be very striking. It needs not a Ja- 
cobite nrejudice to be affected with this song. 

The supposed author of "Lewis Gordon" 
v^as a Mr. Geddes, priest, at Shenval, in the 
Alnzie. 



O HONE A RIE. 
De. Blacklock informed me that this songwal 
composed on the infamous massacre of Glencoe. 



I'LL NEVER LEAVE THEE. 
This is another of Crawfurd's songs, but I 
do not think in his happiest manner. — What an 
absurdity, to join such names as Adonis and 
Mary together ! 



CORN RIGS ARE BONIE. 
All the old words that ever I could meet ti 
this air were the following, which seem to have 
been an old chorus : 

" O corn rigs and rye rigs, 
O corn rigs are bonie ; 
And where'er you meet a bonie lass, 
Preen up her cockernonv." 



THE MUCKING OF GEORDIE'S BYRE. 
The chorus of this song is old ; the rest ii 
the work of Balloon Tytler. 



BIDE YE YET. 
TkERE is a beautiful song to this tune, begin ^ 
ning, 

" Alas, my son, you little know," — 

which is the composition of Miss Jenny Graham, 
of Dumfries. 



WAUKIN O' THE lAULD. 

There are two stanzas still aung to this tune, 
which I take to be the original song whence 
Ramsay composed his beautiful song of that 
name in the Gentle Shepherd. — It begins 

" O will ye speak at our towa, 
As ye come frae the fauld." 

I regret that, as in many of our old soDgs, 
the delicacy of this old fragment is not e<;^uai 
to its wit and humour. 



TRANENT-MUIR. 
" Tranent-Muir," was composed by a Mr. 
Skirving, a very worthy respectable farmer near 
Haddington. I have heard the anecdote often, 
that Lieut. Smith, whom he mentions in th« 
ninth stanza, came to Haddington after thf 



510 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONGI-. 



publication of the song, and sent a challenge to 
Skirving to meet him at Haddington, and an- 
swer for the unworthy manner in which he had 
noticed him in his song. " Gang away back," 
Baid the honest farmer, "and tell Mr. Smith 
that I hae nae leisure to come to Haddington ; 
but tell him to come here, and I'll tak a look o' 
him, and if I think I'm fit to fecht him, I'll 
fecht him ; and if no, I'll do as he did — Pll rin 



TO THE WEAVERS GIN YE GO. 
The chorus of this song is old, the rest of it 
is mine. Here, once for all, let me apologize 
for many silly compositions of mine in this 
work. Many beautiful airs wanted words ; in 
the hurry of other avocations, if I could string 
a parcel of rhymes together anything near tole- 
rable, I was fain to let them pass. He must be 
an excellent poet indeed whose every perform- 
ance is excellent. 



POLWARTH ON THE GREEN. 
The author of ** Polwarth on the Green" is 
Capt. John Drummond M'Gregor, of the family 
of Bochaldie. 



STREPHON AND LYDIA. 

The following account of this song I had 
from Dr. Blacklock. 

The Strephon and Lydia mentioned in the 
Bong were perhaps the loveliest couple of their 
time. The gentleman was commonly known by 
the name of Beau Gibson. The lady was the 
" Gentle Jean," celebrated somewhere in Ha- 
milton of Bangour's poems. —Having frequently 
met at public places, they had formed a recipro- 
cal attachment, which their friends thought 
dangerous, as their resources were by no means 
adequate to their tastes and habits of life. To 
?lude the bad consequences of sush a connexion, 
Strephon was sent abroad with a commission, 
uA perished in Admiral Vernon's expedition to 
Carthagena. 

The author of this song was William Wallace, 
•ilsq, of Cairnhill, in Ayrshire. 



I'M O'ER YOUNG TO MARRY YET. 
The chorus of this song is old. The rest of 
t. such as it is, is mine 



M'PHERSON S FAREWET.L. 

MTherson, a daring robber, in the begin* 
ning of this century, was condemned to be 
hanged at the assizes of Inverness. He is said, 
when under sentence of death, to have composed 
this tune, which he called his own lament or 
farewell. 

Gow has published a variation of tLsl fine 
tune as his own composition, ^ich he calli 
** The Princess Augusta." 



MY JO, JANET. 
Johnson, the publisher, with a foolish deli- 
cacy, refused to insert the last stanza of this 
humorous ballad. 



THE SHEPHERD'S COMPLAINT. 
The words by a Mr. R. Scott, from the toTvn 
or neighbourhood of Biggar. 



THE BIRKS OF ABERPELDY. 
I COMPOSED these stanzas standing under the 
falls of Aberfeldy, at or near Moness. 



THE HIGHLAND LASSIE 0. 
This was a composition of mine in very early 
life, before I was known at all in the world. My 
Highland lassie was a warm-hearted, charming 
young creature as ever I •cssed a man with 
generous love. After a pretty long tract of the 
most ardent reciprocal attachment, we met by 
appointment on the second Sunday of May, in 
a sequestered spot by the banks of Ayr, where 
we spent the day in taking a farewell before she 
should embark for the West Highlands, to ar- 
range matters among her friends for our pro- 
jected change of life. At the close of autumn 
following she crossed the sea to meet me &\ 
Greenock, where she had scarce landed when 
she was seized with a malignant fever, which 
hurried my dear girl to the grave in a few days, 
before I could even hear of her last illness. 



FIFE, AND A' THE LANDS ABOUT IT. 
This song is Dr. Blacklock's. He, as well as 
I, often gave Johnson verses, trifling enough 



KEMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



51i 



^rhaps, but they served as a vehicle to the 
tnusic. 



WERE NA MY HEART LIGHT I WAD DIE. 

Lord Hailes, in the notes to his collection of 
ft<ic\ent Scots poems, says that this song was 
»ie composition of a Lady Grissel Baillie, 
daughter of the first Earl of Marchmont, and 
wife cf George Baillie, of Jerviswood. 



THE YOUNG MAN'S DREAM. 
This song is the composition of Balloon Tytler. 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

This air is the composition of one of the 
w'irthiest and best-hearted men living — Allan 
Masterton, schoolmaster in Edinburgh. As he 
and I were both sprouts of Jacobitism we agreed 
to dedicate the words and air to that cause. 

To tell the matter-of-fact, except when my 
passions were heated by some accidental cause, 
my Jacobitism was merely by way of vive la 
bagatelle. 



UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 
The chorus of this is old; the two stanzas 
ftre mine. 



THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. 
Db. Blacklock told me that Smollet, who was 
at the bottom a great Jacobite, composed these 
beautiful and pathetic verses on the infamous 
depredatii^ns of the Duke of Cumberland after 
the bf.ttlt 01 CuUoden. 



WHAT WILL I DO GIN MY HOGGIE DIE. 

Di. Walker, -who was minister at Moflfat in 
1T72, and is now (1791) Professor of Natural 
History in the University of Edinburgh, told 
the following anecdote concerning this air. — 
H«» said, that some gentlemen, riding a few 
vears ago through Liddesdale, stopped at a 
hamlet consisting of a few houses, called Moss 
Piatt, when they were struck with this tune, 
which an old woman, spinning on a rock at her 
ioor, was singing. All she could tell concern- 
ng it was, that she was taught it when a child. 



and it was called "What will I do gin my Hog- 
gie die ?" No person, except a few females at 
Moss Piatt, knew this fine old tune, which in ali 
probability would have been lost had not one 
of the gentlemen, who happened to have a fluti 
with him, taken it down. 



I DREAM'D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS WERE 
SPRINGING. 
These two stanzas 1 composed when I waa 
seventeen, and are among the oldest of my 
printed pieces. 



AH ! THE POOR SHEPHERD'S MOURNFUL 

FATE. 

Tune—" Gallashiels." 

The old title, " Sour Plums o' Gallashiels,'' 

probably was the beginning of a song to thia 

air, which is now lost. 

The tune of Gallashiels was composed about 
the beginning of the present century by the 
Laird of Gallashiel's piper. 



THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. 
These verses were composed on a charming 
girl, a Miss Charlotte Hamilton, who is now 
married to James M'Kitrick Adair, Esq., phy- 
sician. She is sister to my worthy friend Gavin 
Hamilton, of Mauchline, and was born on the 
banks of the Ayr, but was, at the time I wrote 
these lines, residing at Herveyston, in Clack 
mannanshire, on the romantic banks of the little 
river Devon. I first heard the air from a lady 
in Inverness, and got the notes taken down fep 
this work. 



MHiL, MILL O. 
The original, or at least a song evideDtl* 
prior to Ramsay's is still extant. — Ii I'uns thiJ 

CHORUS. 

« The mill, mill O, and the kill, kill O, 
And the coggin o' Peggy's wheel, O, 
The sack and the sieve, and a' she did lea>« 
And danc'd the miller's reel O.— 

As I came down yon waterside, 

And by yon shellin-hill O, 
There I spied a bonie bonie la is, 

And a lass that I lov'd right well O.' • 
* * * • 



512 



BEMAEKS ON SCOTTISH SONO. 



WE RAN AND THEY RAN. 
The author of " We ran and they ran" — was 
a Rev. Mr. Murdoch M'Lennan, minister at 
Crathie, Dee-side. 



WALY, WALY. 
In the west country I have heard a different 
edition of the second stanza. — Instead of the 
fotar lines, beginning with, "When cockle-shells, 
&c.," the other way ran thus : — 

" O wherefore need I busk my head. 
Or wherefore need I kame my hair, 
Sin my fause luve has me forsook, 
And says, he'll never luve me mair." 



DUNCAN GRAY. 
Dk. Blacklock informed me that he had often 
heard the tradition, that this air was composed 
by a carman in Glasgow. 



DUMBARTON DRUMS. 

This is the last of the West-Highland airs ; 
and from it over the whole tract of country to 
the confines of Tweed-side, there is hardly a 
tune or song that one can say has taken its 
origin from any place or transaction in that part 
of Scotland. — The oldest Ayrshire reel, is Stew- 
arton Lasses, which was made by the father of 
the present Sir Walter Montgomery Cunning- 
ham, alias Lord Lysle ; since which period there 
has indeed been local music in that country in 
great plenty. — Johnie Faa is the only old song 
which I could ever trace as belonging to the ex- 
pansive county of Ayr. 



CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN, 
f HIS song is by the Duke of Gordon, 
lid verses are, 

" There's cauld kail m Aberdeen, 

And castocks in Strathbogie ; 

When ilka lad maun hae his las8, 

Then fye, gie me my coggie. 

CHORUa. 

My coggie, Sirs, my coggie. Sirs, 
I cannot want my coggie ; 

I wadna gie my three-girr'd cap 
For e'er a quene on Bogie. — 

There's Johnie Smith has got a wife, 
That scrimps him o' his coggie, 

If she v'/ere mine, upon my life 
I wad douk her io & bogie." 



-The 



FOR LAKE OP GOLD. 
The country girls in Ayrshire, instead of the 

line — 

" She me forsook for a great duke," 
say, 

" For Athole's duke she me forsook:" 

which I take to be the origina.' reading. 

These were composed by the late Dr. Austin^,. 
physican at Edinburgh. — He had courted a lady, 
to whom he was shortly to have been married ; 
but the Duke of Athole having seen her, became 
so much in love with her, that he made pro- 
posals of marriage, which were accepted of, and 
she jilted the doctor. 



HERE'S A HEALTH TO MY TRUE LOVE, &c. 
This song is Dr. Blacklock's. He told me that 
tradition gives the air to our James IV. of Scot- 
land. 



HEY TUTTI TAITI. 
I HAVE met the tradition universally over 
Scotland, and particularly about Stirling, in the 
neighbourhood of the scene, that this air was 
Robert Bruce's march at the battle of Bannock- 
burn. 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. 

I COMPOSED these verses on Miss Isabella 
M'Leod, of Raza, alluding to her feelings on 
the death of her sister, and the still more me- 
lancholy death of her sister's husband, the lata 
Earl of Loudon ; who shot himself out of sheer 
heart-break at some mortifications he suffered, 
owing to the deranged state of his finances. 



TAK YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE. 
A PART of this old song, according to the 
English set of it, is quoted in Shakspeare. 



YE GODS; WAS STREPHON'S PICTURE 
BLEST ? 
Tune — " Fourteenth of Octobei. 
The title of this air shows that it alludes to 
the famous king Crispian, the patron of the ho- 
nourable corporation of shoemakers. — St. Cris- 
pian's day falls on the fourteenth of Octobei 
old style, as the old proverb tells : 

" On the fourteenth of October 
Was ne'er a sutor sober." 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



61 ; 



«INCE ROBB'D OF ALL THAT CHARM'D MY 
VIEWS. 
The old name of this air is, "the Blossom o' 
»he. Raspberry." The song is Dr. Blacklock's. 



YOUNG DAMON. 

This air is by Oswald. 



KIRK WAD LET ME BE. 

Tradition in the western parts of Scotland 
tells that this old song, of which there are still 
rhree stanzas extant, once saved a covenanting 
clergyman out of a scrape. It was a little prior 
to tht revolution, a period when being a Scots 
covenanter was being a felon, that one of their 
clergy, who was at that very time hunted by 
the merciless soldiery, fell in, by accident, with 
a party of the military. The soldiers were not 
exactly acquainted with the person of the reve- 
rend gentleman of whom they were in search ; 
but from suspicious circumstances, they fancied 
that they had got one of that cloth and oppro- 
brious persuasion among them in the person of 
this stranger. "Mass John" to extricate him- 
pelf, assumed a freedom of manners, very unlike 
*he gloomy strictness of his sect ; and among 
■;>ther convivial exhibitions, sung (and some tra- 
ditions say, composed on the spur of the occa- 
Bion) ''Kirk wad let me be," with such effect, 

that the sclfii^^rs swore he was a d d honest 

fellow, f.nd *bat it was impossible he could be- 
long to thosp hellish conventicles ; and so gave 
bim his liberty. 

The first stanza of this song, a little altered, 
is a favourite kind of dramatic interlude acted 
at country weddings, in the south-west parts 
of the kingdom. A young fellow is dressed up 
like an old beggar ; a peruke, commonly made 
of carded tow, represents hoary locks ; an old 
bonnet ; a ragged plaid, or surtout, bound with 
a straw rope for a girdle ; a pair of old shoes, 
with straw ropes twisted round his ankles, as is 
done by shepherds in snowy weather : his face 
they disguise as like wretched old age as they 
can : in this plight he is brought into the wed- 
ding-house, frequently to the astonishment of 
ptrangers, who are not in the secret, and begins 
ko sing — 

'♦•O, I am a Billy auld man, 

My name it is auld Glenae." &c 
33 



He is asked to drink, and by and bye ta 
dance, which after some uncouth excuses he ia 
prevailed on to do, the fiddler playing the tune, 
which here is commonly called "Auld Glenae ;" 
in short he is all the time so plied with liquo* 
that he is understood to get intoxicated, sjid 
with all the ridiculous gesticulations cf an 
old drunken beggar, he dances and staggers 
until he falls on the floor ; yet still in all hii 
riot, nay, in his rolling and tumbling on tht 
floor, with some or other drunken motion of his 
body, he beats time to the music, till at last 
he is supposed to be carried out dead drunk. 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 
I COMPOSED these verses out of compliment to 
a Mrs. M'Lachlan, whose husband is an office* 
in the East Indies 



BLYTHE WAS SHE. 
I COMPOSED these verses while I stayed at 
Ochtertyre with Sir William Murray. — The lady, 
who was also at Ochtertyre at the same time,, 
was the well-known toast, Miss Euphemia Mujp* 
ray, of Lentrose; she was called, and very justly, 
"The Flower of Strathmore." 



JOHNNIE FAA, OR THE GYPSIE LADDIE. 

The people in Ayrshire begin this song — 
" The gypsies cam to my Lord Cassilis' yett." — 

They have a great many more stanzas in this 
song than I ever yet saw in any printed copy. — 
The castle is still remaining at Maybole, where 
his lordship shut up his wayward spouse, and 
kept her for life. 



TO DAUNTON ME 
The two following old stanzas to this tun« 
have some merit : 

<' To daunton me, to dniinton me, 

ken ye what it is that'll dauiUon me "> — 
Tliere's eighty-eight and eighty-nine. 
And a' that I hae borne sinsyne, 
There's cess and press and Presbytrie, 

1 think it will do meikle for to daunton mo 

But to wanton me, to wanton me, 

ken ye what it is that wad wanton me- 
To see gude corn upon the rigs, 

And banishment amang the Whigs, 
And right restor'd where right sud be, 

1 think it would do meikle for to wanton »•, 



THE BONNIE LASS MADE THE BED TO ME. 
" The Bonnie Lass made the Bed to me," 
wras composed on an amour of Charles II. when 
Bkulking in the North, about Aberdeen, in the 
time of the usurpation. He formed ukb petite 
affaire with a daughter of the house of Portle- 
ibam, who was the *'lass that made the bed t: 
bitt -•" — two verses of it are, 

*■'• 1 kiss'd her lips sae rosy red, 

While the tear stood blinkin in her e'e ; 
I eaid, My lassie, dinna cry, 

For ye ay shall make the bed to m«. 

She took her mither's hoJland sheets, 
And made them a' in sarks to me ; 

Blythe and merry may she be, 
The lass that made the bed to me." 



ABSENCE. 
A SONG in the manner of Shenstone. 
This song and air are both by Dr. Blacklock. 



1 HAD A HORSE AND I HAD NAE MAIR. 

This story is founded on fact. A John Hun- 
ter, ancestor to a very respectable farming fa- 
mily, who live in a place in the parish, I think, 
of Galston, called Bar-mill, was the luckless 
bero that " had a horse and had nae mair," — 
For some little youthful follies he found it ne- 
cessary to make a retreat to the West-High- 
lands, where " he feed himself to a Ilighland 
Laird," for that is the expression of all the oral 
editions of the song I ever heard. — The present 
Mr. Hunter, who told me the anecdote, is the 
great-grandchild of our hero. 



UP AND WARN A WILLIE. 
This edition of the song I got from Tom Niel, 
&f facetious fame, in Edinburgh. The expres- 
Bion " Up and warn a' Willie," alludes to the 
Craatara, or warning of a Highland clan to 
Armo, Not understanding this, the Lowlanders 
In the west and south say, " Up and waur them 
a\" &c. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 
This song I composed on Miss Jenny Cruik- 
ehank, only child of my worthy friend Mr. Wil- 
liam Cruikshank, of the High-School, Edin- 
ft-srgb. TV is air is by a David Sillar, quondam 



merchant, and" now schoolmaster in Irvine. H« 
I is the Davie to whom I address my printed poet- 
I ical epistle in the measure of the Cherry and 

the Slae. 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 
It is remark- worthy that the song of *< Holy 
and Fairly," in all the old editions of it, is 
called " The Drunken Wife p' Galloway," which 
localizes it to that country. 



RATTLIN, ROARIN WILLIE. 

The last stanza of this song i? mine ; it was 
composed out of compliment to one of the wor- 
thiest fellows in the world, William Dunbar, 
Esq., writer to the signet, Edinburgh, and Co- 
lonel of the Crochallan Corps, a club of wita 
who took that title at the time of raising the 
fencible regiments. 



WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER STORMS 
This song I composed on one of the most ac- 
complished of women. Miss Peggy Chalmers, 
that was, now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of Forbes and 
Co.'s bank, Edinburgh. 



TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 
This song I composed about the age of seven 
teen. 



NANCY'S GHOST. 
This song is by Dr. Blacklock. 



TUNE YOUR FIDDLES, ETC. 
This song was composed by the Rev. John 
Skinner, nonjuror clergyman at Linshart^ near 
Peterhead. He is likewise author of " TuUocL 
gorum," " Ewie wi' the crooked Horn," "John 
o' Badenyond," &c., and what is of still more 
consequence, he is one of the worthiest of msitt- 
kind. He is the author of an ecclesiastical his- 
tory of Scotland. The air is by Mr. Marshall, 
butler to the Duke of Gordon ; the first com- 
poser of strathspeys of the age. I have been 
told by somebody, who had it of Marshall him 
self, that he took the idea of his three most 
celebrated pieces, *' The Marquis of Huntiey'a 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONQ. 



5ia 



B«el," his " Farewell," and "Miss Admiral Gor- 
don's Reel," from the old air, "The German 
Lairdie." 



GILL MORICE. 
This plaintive ballad ought to havB been 
called Child Maurice, and not Gil Maurice. In 
Ub present dress, it has gained immortal honour 
from Mr. Home's taking from it the ground- 
work of his fine tragedy of Douglas. But I am 
of opinion that the present ballad is a modern 
composition; perhaps not much above the age 
of the middle of the last century ; at least I 
should be glad to see or hear of a copy of the 
present words prior to 1650. That it was taken 
from an old ballad, called " Child Maurice," 
now lost, I am inclined to believe ; but the pre- 
sent one maybe classed with ". Hardyknute," 
"Kenneth," "Duncan, the Laird of Wood- 
houselie," "Lord Livingston," " Binnorie,'* 
" The Death of Monteith," and many other mo- 
dern productions, which have been swallowed by 
many readers as ancient fragments of old poems. 
This beautiful plaintive tune was composed by 
Mr. M'Gibbon, the selector of a collection of 
Scots tunes. R. B. 

In addition to the observations on Gil Morice, 
I add, that of the songs which Captain Riddel 
mentions, "Kenneth" and "Duncan" are juve- 
nile compositions of Mr. M'Kenzie, "The Man of 
Feeling." — M'Kenzie's father showed them in 
MS. to Dr. Blacklock, as the productions of his 
son, from which the Doctor rightly prognosti- 
cated that the young poet would make, in his 
more advanced years, a respectable figure in 
the world of letters. 

This I had from Blacklock. 



TEBBIE DUNBAR. 
This tune is said to be the composition of 
?ctn M'Gill, fiddler, in Girvan. He called it 
ifter bis own name 



WHEN I UPON THY BOSOM LEAN. 
Th(s song was the work of a very worthy 
facetijus old fellow, .John Lapraik, late of Dal- 
fram, near Muirkirk ; which little property he 
was obliged to sell in consequence of some con- 
nexion as security for some persons concerned 
la that villrinous bubble the atr bank. He 



has often told me that he composed this Bonf 
one day when his wife had been fretting Ver 
their misfortunes. 



MY HAKRY WAS A GALLANT GAY. 

Tune — "Highlander's Lament." 
The oldest title I ever heard to this air, "was, 
" The Highland Watch's Farewell to Irelaud." 
The chorus I picked up from an old woman iq 
Dumblane ; the rest of the song is mine. 



THE HIGHLAND CHARACTER. 
This tune was the composition of Gen. Reid, 
and called by him " The Highland, or 42(1 
Regiment's March." The words are by Sir 
Harry Erskine. 



LEADER-HAUGHS AND YARROW. 
There is in several collections, the old sonji 
of " Leader-Haughs and Yarrow." It seems to 
have been the work of one of our itinerant min- 
strels, as he calls himself, at the conclusion of 
his song, "Minstrel Burn." 



THE TAILOR FELL THRO' THE BED, 
THIMBLE AN' A'. 
This air is the march of the corporation of 
tailors. The second and fourth stanzas ar« 
mine. 



BEWARE O' BONNIE ANN. 
I COMPOSED this song out of compliment to 
Miss Ann Masterton, the daughter of my frieni 
Allan Masterton, the author of the air of Strath* 
allan's Lament, and two or three others in this 
work. 



THIS IS NO MINE AIN HOUSE. 
The first half stanza is old, the rest is Ram 
say's. The old words are — 

" Tnis is no mine ain house, 

My ain house, my ain house ; 
This is no mine ain house, 
I ken by the biggin o't. 

Bread and cheese are my door-cheelCR, 
My door-cheeks, my door-cheeks; 

Bread and cheese are my door-cheek«» 
And pancakes the rigjf in o't. 



516 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONO. 



This is no my ain wean j 

My ain wean, my ain wean ; , 
This is no my ain wean, 
I ken by the greetie o't 

I'll tak the curchie aff my head, 

Aff my head, aff my head ; 
I'll tak the curchie aff my head, 

And row't about the feetie o't." 

The tune is an old Highland air, called 
^'Shuan truish willighan." 



LADDIE, LIE NEAR ME. 
This song is by Blacklock. 



THE GARDENER AND HIS PATDLE. 
This air is the " Gardener's March." The 
title of the song only is old ; the rest is mine. 



THE DAT RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. 

Tune. — " Seventh of November." 
I COMPOSED this song out of compliment to 
one of the happiest and worthiest married cou- 
ples in the world, Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glen- 
riddel, and his lady. At their fire-side I have 
enjoyed more pleasant evenings than at all the 
houses of fashionable people in this country put 
together ; and to their kindness and hospitality 
I am indebted for many of the happiest hours 
of my life. 



THE GABERLUNZIE MAN. 
The *' Gaberlunzie Man" is supposed to com- 
memorate an intrigue of James the Fifth. Mr. 
Callander, of Craigforth, published some years 
ago an edition of " Christ's Kirk on the Green," 
and the " Gaberlunzie Man," with notes critical 
and historical. James the Fifth is said to have 
been fond of Gosford, in Aberlady parish, and 
fchat it was suspected by his contemporaries, that 
Hi his frequent excursions to that part of the 
c-ountry, he had other purposes in view besides 
golfing and archery. Three favourite ladies, 
Sandilands, Weir, and Oliphant (one of them 
resided at Gosford, and the others in the neigh- 
bourhood), were occasionally visited by their 
royal and gallant admirer, which gave rise to 
the following advice to hi« majesty, from Sir 
David Lindsay, of the Mount, Lord Lyom. 

' Sow not your seed on Sandylands, 
oend not your strength in Weir, 



And ride not on an Eli's>*i«int, 
For gawing o' your gear." 



MY BONNIE MARY. 
This air is Oswald's ; the first half stanza o* 
the song is old, the rest mine. 



THE BLACK EAGLE. 
This song is by Dr. Fordyce, whose merits al 
a prose writer are well known. 



JAMIE, COME TRY ME. 
This air is Oswald's; the song mine. 



THE LAZY MIST. 
This song is mine. 



JOHNIE COPE. 
This satirical song was composed to comme* 
morate General Cope's defeat at Preston Pans, 
in 1745, when he marched against the Clans. 

The air was the tune of an old song, of which 
I have heard some verses, but now only remem-" 
ber the title, which was, 

*' Will ye go the coals in the morning." 



I LOVE MY JEAN. 
This air is by Marshall ; the song I composed 
?ut of compliment to Mrs. Burns. 
N. B. It was during the honeymoon. 



CEASEj CEASE, MY DEAR FRIEND, TO 
EXPLORE. 
The song is by Dr. Blacklock ; I believe, but 
am not quite certain, that the air is his too. 



' AULD ROBIN GRAY. 
This air was formerly called, ** The bride- 
groom greets when the sun gangs down." Th« 
words are by Lady Ann Lindsay, of the Bal 
carras family. 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



Ml 



DONALD AND FLORA. 
This is one of those fine Gaelic tunes, pre- 
■erved from time immemorial in the Hebrides ; 
they seem to be the ground-work of many of 
Dur finest Scots pastoral tunes. The words of 
this song were written to commemorate the un- 
fortunate expedition of General Burgoyne in 
America, in 1777. 



O WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL. 
This air is Oswald's ; the song I made out of 
compliment to Mrs. Burns. 



THE CAPTIVE ROBIN. 
This air is called "Robie donna Gorach.' 



there's a YOUTH IN THIS CITY. 
This air is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it 
his lament for his brother. The first half-stanza 
of the song is old ; the rest mine. 



MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 
The first half-stanza of this song is old ; the 
rest is mine. 



CA' THE EWES AND THE KNOWES. 
. This beautiful song is in true old Scotch 
l&ste, yet I do not know that either air or words 
were Li print 'before. 



THE BRID4L o'T. 
This scng is the work of a Mr. Alexander 
Ross, late schoolmaster at Lochlee; and author 
of a beautiful Scots poem, called " The Fortu- 
nate Shepherdess." 

''They say that Jockey 'II speed weel o't, 

They Eiy that Jockey '11 speed weel o't, 
For he grows brawer ilka d-^y 

I hope we'll hae a bridal o't ; 
For yesternight nae Carder gane, 

Tiie back! ouse at the side wa' o't, 
He (here wj' Meg was mirden seen, 

I h jpe we'll hae a bridal o't. 

Aji' we had but a bridal o't. 

An' we had bnt a bridal o't, 
vVe'd leave the rest unto giule luck, 

Ait. 3' there should betide ill o't : 



For bridal days are merry times. 

And young folks like the coming o't, 
And scribblers they bang up their rhymes, 

And pipers they the bumming o't. 

The lasses like a bridal o't, 

The lasses like a bridal o't, 
Their braws maun be in rank and file, 

Altho' that they should guit.e ill o't: 
The boddora o' the kist is then 

furn'd up into the inmost o'tj 
The ena that held the kecks sae clean. 

Is now become the teemest o't 

The bangster at the threshing o't, 

The bangster at the threshing o't, 
Afore it comes is fidgin-fain, 

And ilka day's a clashing o't: 
He'll sell his jerkin for a groat, 

His Under for anither o't, 
And e'er he want to clear his shot, 

His sark'U pay the tither o't 

The pipers and the fiddlers o't, 

The pipers and the fiddlers o't, 
Can smell a bridal unco' far, 

And like to be the rniddlers o't; 
Fan 1 thick and threefold they conver 

Ilk ane envies the tither o't. 
And wishes nane but him alane 

May «ver see anither o't. 

Fan they hae done wi' eating o't, 

Fan tiiey hae done wi' eating o't. 
For dancing they gae to the green, 

And aiblins to the beating o't: 
He dances best that dances fast, 

And loups at ilka reesing o't. 
And claps his hands frae hough to hou^ . 

And furls about the feezings o't." 



TODLEN HAME. 
This is perhaps the first bottle song that evei 
was composed. 



THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. 
This air is the composition of my frieni 
Allan Masterton, in Edinburgh. I composed th« 
verses on the amiable and excellent familj- of 
Whitefoords leaving Ballochmyle, when Sij 
John's misfytunes had obliged him to sell thii 
estate. 



THE RANTIN' DOG, TIIE DADDIE O T- 
I COMPOSED this song pretty early in life, and 
sent it to a young girl, a very particular ac- 
quaintance of mine, who was at .nat time under 
a cloud. 

1 Fan, when — the dialect of Aogaa. 



518 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



T35 SHEPHERD'S PREFERENCE. 

This soig is I)r, Blacklock's, — I don't know 
how it came by the name, but the oldest appel- 
lation of the air was, "Whistle and I'll come to 
you, my lad." 

It has little affinity to the tune commonly 
known by that name. 



THE BONIE BANKS OP AYR. 

1 COMPOSED this soTig as I conveyed my chest 
»c far ox llx" road to Greenock, where I was to 
embark in a few days for Jamaica. 

I meant it as my farewell dirge to my native 
land. 



JOHN O' BADENYON. 
Thi9 excslleni song is the ^omoosition of my 
Iforthy friend, old Skinner, at Linshart. 

♦' When first I cam to be a man 

Of twenty years or so, 
1 thought myself a handsome youth, 

And fain the world would know; 
In best attire I stept abroad, 

With spirits brisk and gay, 
And here and there and everywhere, 

Was like a morn in May ; 
No care had I nor fear of want, 

But rambled up and down, 
4.nd for a beau I might have pass'd 

*n country or in town ; 
I still was pleas'd where'er I went, 

And when I was alone, 
I tun'd my pipe and pleas'd myself 

Wi' John o' Badenyon. 

Now in the days of youthful prim© 

A mistress I must find, 
For love, I heard, gave one an air 

And ev'n improved the mind : 
On Phillis fair above the rest 

Kind fortune fixt my eyes, 
Her piercing beauty struck my heart. 

And she became my choice; 
To Cupid now with liearty prayer 

I offer'd many a vow; 
And danc'd, and sung, and sigh'd, and swore, 

As other lovers do ; 
Bat, when at last I breath'd my flame, 

I found her cold as stone; 
I left the jilt, and tun'd my pipe 

To John o' Badenyon. 

When iove had thus my heart beguil'd 

With foolish hopes and vain, 
To friendship's port I steer'd*my course, 

And laugh'd at lover's pain 
A friend I got by lucky chance 

'Twas somelliing like divine, 
An honest friend's a precious gift. 

And such a gift was mine : 



And now, whatever might betide, 

A happy man was I, 
In any strait I knew to whom 

I freely might apply; 
A strait soon came : my friend I try'dj 

He heard, and spurn'd my moan; 
I hy'd me home, and tun'd my pipe 

To John o' Badenyon. 

Methought I should be wiser next, 

And would a patriot turn. 
Began to doat on Johnny Wilks, 

And cry up Parson Home. 
Their manly spirit I admir'd. 

And prais'd their noble zea.. 
Who had with flaming tongue and pen 

Mainfain'd the public weal ; 
But e'er a month or two had past, 

I found myself betray'd, 
'Twas self and party after all, 

For a' the stir they made ; 
At last I saw the factious knaves 

Insult the very throne, 
I cu's'd them ?.' and fm'd my pipe 

To Joh^ o' lii^Jen} jji." 



A WAUKRIFE MINNIE. 
I PICKED up this old song and tube fronr i 
country girl in Nithsdale. — I never met wit^i U 
elsewhere in Scotland. 

" Whare are you gaun, my bonie lass, 
Whare are you gaun, my hinnie. 
She answer'd me right saucilie. 
An errand for my minnie. 

O whare live ye, my bonie lass, 

O whare live ye, my hinnie, 
By yon burn-side, gin ye maun ken. 

In a wee house wi' my minnie. 

But I foor up the glen at e'en. 

To see my bonie lassie ; 
And lang before the gray morn cam, 

She was na hauf sa sacie. 

O weary fa' the waukrife cock. 
And the foumart lay his crawin ! 

He wauken'd the auld wife frae her sleep, 
A wee blink or the dawin. 

An angry wife I wat she raise, 
And o'er the bed she ^rought her; 

And wi' a mickle hazJf 'iir^g 
She made her a wee. ;«.j -d dochter. 

O fare thee weel, my bonie lass ! 

O fare thee weel, my hinnie ! 
Thou art a gay and a bonie lass, 

But thou hast a waukrife minnie." 



TULLOCHGORUM. 
This first of songs, is the master-piece or my 
old friend Skinner. He was passing the day 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



Ai 



It the towTi of Culien, I think it was, in a 
friend's house whose name was Montgomery. 
Mrs. Montgomery observing, en passant, that the 
beautiful reel of Tullochgorum wanted words, 
she hegged them of Mr. Skinne", who gratified 
her wishes, and the wishes of every Scottish 
Bong, m this most excellent ballad. 

These particular's I had from the author's 
»cn, Bishop Skinner, at Aberdeen. 



FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 
'"'bis song is mine, all except the chorus. 



AULD LANG SYNE. 
Ramsay here, as usual with him, has taken 
the idea of the song, and the first line, from 
tLe ok- frag^eLi wh.cii mL,y be seen ia fhe 
" Museum," vol. v. 



WILLIE BREWD A PECK 0' MAUT. 
Tnis air is Masterton's ; the song mine. — 
The occasion of it was this : — Mr. W. Nicol, of 
the High-School, Edinburgh, during the autumn 
-vacation being at Moffat, honest Allan, who was 
4t that time on a visit to Dalswinton, and I, 
went to pay Nicol a visit. — We had such a 
joyous meeting that Mr. Masterton and I agreed, 
each in our own way, that we should celebrate 
*he business. 



KILLIECRANKIK 
The battle of Killiecrankie was the last stand 
made by the clans for James, after his abdica- 
tion. Here the gallant Lord Dundee fell in the 
moment of victory, and with him fell the hopes 
of the party. General Mackay, when he found 
the Highlanders did not pursue his flying army, 
said, " Dundee must be killed, or he never 
would have overlooked this advantage." A 
fr^<it strne marks the spot where Dundee fell. 



THE EWIE Wr THE CROOKED HORN. 
Another excellent song of oM Skinner's. 



CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD. 
It is remarkable of this air that it is the con- 
Ine of that country where the greatest j art of 



our lowland music (so far as from the title, 
words, &c., we can localize it) has been com 
posed. From Craigie-burn, near Moffat, until 
one reaches the West Highlands, we have 
scarcely one slow air of any antiquity. 

The song was composed on a passion /rhich 
a Mr. Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, hac 
for a Miss Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelp- 
dale. This young lady was born at Craigie-buru 
Wood. — The chorus is part of an old foolish 
ballad. 



FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOVE. 
I ADDED the four last lines, by way of giving 
a turn to the theme of the poem, such as it ia 



HUGHTE GRAHAM. 
There are several eaitions of tnis ballad.— 
TJiis, here inserted, is from oral tradition in 
Ayrshire, where, when I was a boy, it was a 
popular song. — It originally had a simple old 
tune, which I have forgotten. 

" Our lords are to the mountains gane, 
A hunting o' the fallow deer, 
And they have gripet Hughie Graham, 
For stealing o' the bishop's mare. 

And they have tied him hand and foot, 
And led him up, thro' Stirling town; 

The lads and lasses met him there, 
Cried, Hughie Graham, thou art a louc 

O lowse my right hand free, he says, 
And put my braid sword in the same; 

He's no in Stirling town this day. 
Dare tell the tale to Hughie Graham. 

Up then bespake the brave Whitefoord, 

As he sat by the bishop's knee. 
Five hundred white stots I'll gie you, 

If ye'U let Hughie Graham gae free. 

O baud your tongue, the bishop says, 
And wi' your pleading let me be; 

For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat, 
Hughie Graham this day shall die. 

Up then bespake the fair Whitefoordj 
As she sat by the bishop's knee ; 

Five hundred white pence I'll gie you. 
If ye'll gie Hughie Graham to me. 

O baud your tongue now, lady fair, 
And wi' your pleading let it be ; 

Altho' ten Grahams were in his coat) 
It's for my honour he maun die. 

They've ta'en him to the gallows knowa. 

He looked to the gallows tree. 
Yet never colour left his cheeK, 

Nor ever did he blink his e'«» 



120 



REMAKES ON SCOTTISH SONG-. 



At length he looked around about, 

To see -whatever he could spy: 
And there he saw his auld father, 

And he was weeping bitterly. 

haud your tongue, my father dear, 

And wi' your weeping let it be ; 
Thy weeping's sairer on my heart, 

Than a' that they can do to me. 

And ye may gie my brother John 
My sword that's bent in the nuddle clear ; 

And let him come at twelve o'c'.ock, 
4.nd see me pay the bishop's mare. 

And ye may gie my brother James 
My swoid that's bent in the middle brown j 

And bid him cv.,rne at four o'clock, 
And see his brothei Hugh cut down. 

Remember me to Maggy my Nv:^«, 
The neist time ye gang o'er the moor, 

Tell her she staw the bishop's mare, 
Tell her she was the bishop's whore. 

And ye may tell my kith and kin, 
I never did disgrace their blood; 

And when they meet the bishop's cloak, 
To mak it shorter by the hood." 



A SOUTHLAND JENNY. 
This is a popular Ayrshire song, though the 
aotes were never taken down before. It, as 
wrell as many of the ballad tunes in this collec- 
tion, was written from Mrs. Burns's voice. 



MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 
This tune is claimed by Nathaniel Gow. — It 
^ notoriously taken from " The muckin o' Gor- 
die's byre." — It is also to be found long prior 
to Nathaniel Gow's era, in Aird's Selection of 
Airs and Marches, the first edition under the 
name of " The Highway to Edinburgh." 



TEEN, GUID WIFE, COUNT THE LA WIN'. 
Tbe chorus of this is part of an old song, no 
rtauza of which I recollect. 



THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE 
COMES HAME. 

This tune is sometimes called " There's few 
gude fellows when Willie's awa." — But I never 
have been able to meet with anything else of 
*he song than the title. 



I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR. 
This song is altered from a poem by Sil 
Robert Ay ton, private secretary to Mary and 
Ann, Queens of Scotland. — The poem is to be 
found in James Watson's Collection of Scots 
Poems, the earliest collection printed in Scot- 
land. I think that I have improved the simpli- 
city of the sentiments, by giving them a Scota 
dress. 



THE SODGER LADDIE. 
The first verse of this is old ; the rest is hy 
Ramsay. The tune -seems to be the same with 
a slow air, called '* Jackey Hume's Lament"— 
or, " The Hollin Buss" — or " Ken ye what Meg 
o' the Mill has gotten?" 



WHERE WAD BONNIE ANNIE LIE. 
The old name of this tune is, — 

" Whare'll our gudeman lie." 
A silly old stanza of it runs thus — 
•' O whare'll our gudeman lie, 
Gudeman lie, gudeman lie, 
O whare'll our gudeman lie, 
Till he shute o'er the simmei T 

Up amang the hen-bawks, 
The hen-bawks, the hen-bawk»<, 

Up amang the hen-bawks, 
Amang the rotten timmer." 



GALLOWAY TAM. 
I HAVE seen an interlude (acted at a wedding) 
to this tune, called "The Wooing of the Maiden." 
These entertainments are now much worn out 
in this part of Scotland. Two are still retained 
in Nithsdale, viz. "Silly Pure Auld Glenae,'' 
and this one, " The Wooing of the Maiden.' 



AS I CAM DOWN BY YON OASTLE WA 
This is a very popular Ayrshire song. 



LORD RONALD MY SON. 
This air, a very favourite one in Ayrshire, is 
evidently the original of Lochaber. In this 
manner most of our finest more modern airs 
have had their origin. Some early minstrel, or 
musical shepherd, composed the simple, artless 
original air; which being picked up by th« 



more learned musician, took the improved form 
it bears. 



O'ER THE MOOR AMANG THE HEATHER. 

Thi? sorg is the composition of a Jean Glover, 
a gill who was not only a whore, but also a 
thitf • and in one or other character has visited 
most of the Correction Houses in the West. 
She wns bom I believe in Kilmarnock, — I took 
the ftong down from her singing, as she was 
Btrolling through the country, with a sleight-of- 
hand blackguard. 



TO THE ROSE-BUD. 

This song is the composition of a John- 

Bon, a joiner in the neighbourhood of Belfast. 
The tune is by Oswald, altered, evidently, from 
" Jockie's Gray Breeks." 



YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 
This tune is by Oswald. The song alludes to 
a part of my private history, which it is of no 
consequence to the world to know. 



IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE. 
These were originally English verses :- 
gave them the Scots dress. 



EPPIE M'NAB. 
The old song with this title has more wit than 
decency. 



WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR. 
This tune is also known by the name of *♦ Lass 
an I come near thee." The words are mine. 



THOU ART GANE AWA. 
Teis tune is the same with " Haud awa frae 
me, Donald." 



THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL. 

This song of genius was composed by a Miss 
Cranston. It wanted four lines, to make all the 
Itanzas suit the music, which I added, and are 
»h« lour first of the las stanza. 



'No cold approach, no alter'd ax en, 

Just what would make suspicion start; 
No pause the dire extremes between, 
He made me bl«st — and broke my heart '" 



THE BONIE WEE THING. 
Composed on my little idol "ttie charming, 
lovely Davies." 



THE TITHER MORN. 
This tune is originally from the Highlands. 
I have heard a Gaelic song to it, which 1 was 
told was very clever, but not by any means a 
lady's song. 



A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OP 
HER SON. 
This most beautiful tune is, I think, the hap- 
piest composition of that bard-born genius, 
John Riddel, of the family of Glencarnock, at 
Ayr. The words were composed to commemo- 
rate the much-lamented and premature death 
of James Ferguson, Esq., jun. of Craigdarroci* 



DAINTIE DAVIE. 
This song, tradition says, and the composition 
itself confirms it, was composed on the Rev. 
David Williamson's begetting the daughter of 
Lady Cherrytrees with child, while a party of 
dragoons were searching her house to appre 
hend him for being an adherent to the solemn 
league and covenant. The pious woman had 
put a lady's night-cap on him, and had laid him 
a-bed with her own daughter, and passed him 
to the soldiery as a lady, her daughter's bed- 
fellpw. A mutilated stanza ^r two are to be 
found in Herd's collection, but the original song 
consists of five or six stanzas, and were their 
delicacy equal to their wit and humour, they 
would merit a place in any collection. The 
first stanza is 

" Being pursued by the dragoons, 
Within my bed he was laid down \ 
And weel 1 wat he was worth hji room, 
For he was my Daintie Davie. ' 

Ramsay's song, " Luckie Nansy," though h» 
calls it an old son^' with additions, seems ta b« 
all his own except the chorus: 

" I was a telling you, , 

Luckie Nansy, Luckie Nangjr, 



6'i2 



THE BORDER TOUR. 



Auld springs wad ding the new, 
But ye wad never trow me." 

Which I should conjecture to be part of a song 
prior to the affair of Williamson. 



BOB O' DUMBLANE. 
Ramsay, as usual, has modernized this song. 
The original, which I learned on the spot, from 
toy old hostess in the principal inn there, is — 

" Lassie, lend me your braw hemp heckle, 
And I'll lend you my thripplin-kame ; 
My heckle is broken, it canna begotten. 
And we'll gae dance the bob o' Dumbiane. 



Twa gaed to the wood, to the wood, to the wood, 
Twa gaed to the wood — three came hame ; 

An' it be na weal bobbit, weel bobbit, weel bobbit, 
An' it be na weel bobbit, we'll bob it again." 

I insert this song to introduce the following 
anecdote, which I have heard well authenti- 
cated. In the evening of the day of the battle 
of Dumbiane, (Sheriff Muir,) when the action 
was over, a Scots officer in Argyll's army, 
observed to Hife Grace, that he was afraid the 
rebels would give out to the world that they 
had gotten the victory. — "Weel, weel," returned 
his Grace, alluding to the foregoing ballad, "if 
they think it be nae weel bobbit, we'll bob it 
again." 



THE BOEDER TOUR. 



Left Edinburgh (May 6, 1787) — Lammer- 
muir-hills miserably dreary, but at times very 
picturesque. Lanton-edge, a glorious view of 
the Merse — Reach Berrywell — old Mr. Ainslie 
an uncommon character ; — his hobbies, agricul- 
ture, natural philsopohy, and politics. — In the 
first he is unexceptionably the clearest-headed, 
best-informed man I ever met with ; in the 
other two, very intelligent : — As a man of busi- 
ness he has uncommon merit, and by fairly de- 
serving it has made a very decent independence. 
Mrs. Ainslie, an excellent, sensible, cheerful, 
amiable old woman. — Miss Ainslie — her person 
a little embonpoint, but handsome ; her face, par- 
ticularly her eyes, full of sweetness and good 
humour — she unites three qualities rarely to be 
found together; keen, solid penetration; sly, 
witty observation and remark ; and the gentlest, 
Bcost unaffected female modesty — Douglas, a 
clever, fine, promising young fellow. — The 
family-meeting with their brother ; my com- 

1 The author of that fine song, " The Maid that tends 
«»e Goats." 

2 "During the discourse Burns produced a neat im- 
promptu, conveying an elegant compliment to Miss Ains- 
ie. Dr. B. had selected a text of Scripture that contained 
% heavy denuncintion against obstinate dinners. In the 
course of the sermon Burns observed the young lady 
turning over the leaves of her Bible, with muchearnest- 



pagnon de voyage, very charming ; particularly 
the sister. The whole family remarkably at- 
tached to their menials — Mrs. A. full of stories 
of the sagacity and sense of the little gii'l in the 
kitchen. — Mr. A. high in the praises of an Afri- 
can, his house-servant — all his people old in his 
service — Douglas's old nurse came to Berrywell 
yesterday to remind them of its being his birth- 
day. 

A Mr. Dudgeon, a poet at times,' a worthy 
remarkable character — natural penetration, a 
great deal of information, some genius, and ex- 
treme modesty. 

Sunday. — Went to church at Dunse^ — Dr. 
Howmaker a man of strong lungs and pretty 
judicious remark ; but ill skilled in propriety, 
and altogether unconscious of his want of it. 

Monday — Coldstream — went over to EnglancI 
— Cornhill — glorious river Tweed — clear and 
majestic — fine bridge. Dine at Coldstream with 



neBs, in search of the text. He took out a slip of paper, 
and with a pencil wrote the following lines on it, whick 
he immediately presented to her. 

' Fair maid, you need not take the hint, 
Nor idle texts pursue : — 
'Twas guilty sinners that he nrieant,— 
Not angels such as you." 

Crcioik. 



THE BORDER TOUR. 



t>23 



Mr Ainslie and Mr. Foreman — beat Mr. F 

in a dispute about Voltaire. Tea at Lenel 
House with Mr. Brydone — Mr. Brydone a meet 
excellent heart, kind, joyous, and benevolent; 
out a good deal of the French indiscriminate 
complaisance — from his situation past and pre- 
sent, an admirer of everything that bears a 
splendid title, or that possesses a large estate — 
Mrs Brydone a most elegant woman in her per- 
ion and manners ; the tones of her voice re- 
markably sweet — my reception extremely flat- 
tering — sleep at Coldstream. 

Tuesday. — Breakfast at Kelso — charming situ- 
ation of Kelso — fine bridge over the Tweed — 
enchanting views and prospects on both sides 
of the river, particularly the S(?otch side ; in- 
troduced to Mr. Scott of the Royal Bank — an 
excebent, Tiiode.at fell<^w — fine situation of it — 
ruins v,f Rv,-.buig,ii Cu^cle—a, hci.y-b^LJti, ^£\)VT- 
ing where James II. of Scotland was acciden- 
tally killed by the bursting of a cannon. A 
email ola religious ruin, and a fine old garden 
planted by the religious, rooted out and destroyed 
by an English hottentot, a maitre d^hotel of the 
duke's, a Mr. Cole — climate and soil of Berwick- 
Bhire, and even Roxburghshire, superior to 
Ayrshire — bad roads. Turnip and sheep hus- 
bandry, their great improvements — Mr. M'- 
Powal, at Caverton Mill, a friend of Mr. Ains- 
lie'a, with whom I dined to-day, sold his sheep, 
ewe and lamb together, at two guineas a piece 
— wash their sheep before shearing — seven or 
eight pounds of washen wool in a fleece — low 
markets, consequently low rents — fine lands 
not above sixteen shillings a Scotch acre — mag- 
nificence of farmers and farm-houses — come up 
Teviot and up Jed to Jedburgh to lie, and so 
wish myself a good night. 

TFi^cfnest/o^.— Breakfast with Mr. in Jed- 
burgh — a squabble between Mrs. , a crazed, 

talkative slattern, and a sister of hers, an old 
maid, respscting a relief minister — Miss gives 
Madam cJi^^ie; and Madam, by way of revenge, 
upbraids her that she laid snares to entangle 
the said minister, then a widower, in the net 
of matrimony — go about two miles out of Jed- 
burgh to a rcup of parks — meet a polite, sol- 
dier-like gentleman, a Captain Rutherford, who 
had been many years through the wilds of 
America, a prisoner among the Indians — charm- 
ing, romantic situation of Jedburgh, with gar- 
4enA, orchards, &c., intermingled among the 



houses — fine old ruins — a cnce magnificent ca* 
thedral, and strong castle. All the towns here 
have the appearance of old, rude grandeur, bul 
the people extremely idle — Jed a fine romantic 
littla river. 

Bine with Capt. Rutherford — the Captain a 
polite fellow, fond of money in his farming 
way ; showed a particular respect to ray 1 ard» 
ghip — his lady exactly a proper matrimcnial 
second part for him. Miss Rutherford a beau- 
tiful girl, but too far gone woman to expose so 
much of a fine sirelling bosom -her face very 
fine. 

Return to Jedburgh —valk up Jed with some 
ladies to be shown Love-lane and Blackburn, 
two fairy scenes. Introduced tc Mr. Potts, 
wriier, a very clever fellow; and Mr. Somer- 
ville, the clergyman of the place, a man and a 
gent^smn.n, bnt sf>diy addicted t'> pur>ning — 

The walKing party of ladies, Mrs. and 

Miss her sister, before mentioned. — N.B 

These two appear still more comfortably ugly 
and stupid, and bore me most shockingly. Two 

Miss , tolerably agreeable. Miss Hope, a 

tolerably pretty girl, fond of laughing and fun. 
Miss Lindsay, a good-humoured, amiable girl; 
rather short et embonpoint, but handsome, and 
extremely graceful — beautiful hazel eyes, full 
of spirit, and sparkling with delicious moisture 
— an engaging face — un tout ensemble that speaks 
her of the first order of female minds — her 
sister, a bonnie, strappan, rosy, sonsie lass. 
Shake myself loose, after several unsuccessful 
efi^orts, of Mrs. and Miss , and some- 
how or other, get hold of Miss Lindsay's arm. 
My heart is thawed into melting pleasure after 
being so long frozen up in the Greenland bay 
of indifference, amid the noise and nonsense of 
Edinburgh. Miss seems very well pleased with 
my hardship's distinguishing her, and after 
some slight qualms, which I could easily mark, 
she sets the titter round at defiance, and kindly 
allows me to keep my hold ; and when parted 
by the ceremony of my introduction to Mr 
Somerville, she met me half, to resume my situ- 
ation. Nota Bene — The poet within a point 

and a half of being d-mnably in love — I am 
afraid my bosom is still nearly as much tinder 
as ever. 

The old cross-grained, whiggish, ugly, slan* 

derous Miss , with all the poisonous spleen 

of a disappointed, ancient maid, stops me ver5 
unseasonably to ease her bursting br-eaet, bj 



524 



THE BORDER TOUR 



falling abusively foul on the Miss Lindsays, par- 
ticularly on my Dulcinea ; — I hardly refrain 
from cursing her to her face for daring to mouth 
her calumnious slander on one of the finest 
{.ieces of the workmanship of Almighty Excel- 
lence ! Sup at Mr. 's ; vexed that the 

Mxtss Lindsays are not of the supper-party, as 

they only are wanting. Mrs. and Miss 

still improve infernally on my hands. 

Set out next morning for Wauchope, the seat 
of my correspondent, Mrs. Scott — breakfast by 
the way with Dr. Elliot, an agreeable, good- 
hearted, climate-beaten old veteran, in the 
medical line ; now retired to a romantic, but 
rather moorish place, on the banks of the Roole 
— he accompanies us almost to Wauchope — we 
traverse the country to the top of Bochester, 
the scene of an old encampment, and Woolee 
Hill. 

Wauchope — Mr. Scott exactly the figure and 
face commonly given to Sancho Panca — very 
Bhrewd in his farming matters, and not unfre- 
quently stumbles on what may be called a 
Btrong thing rather than a good thing. Mrs. 
Scott all the sense, taste, intrepidity of face, 
and bold, critical decision, which usually dis- 
tinguish female authors. — Sup with Mr. Potts 
— agreeable party. — Breakfast next morning 
with Mr. Somerville — the bruit of Miss Lindsay 
and my hardship, by means of the invention 

and malice of Miss . Mr. Somerville sends 

to Dr. Lindsay, begging him and family to 
breakfast if convenient, but at all events to 
Bend Miss Lindsay; accordingly Miss Lindsay 
only comes.— I find Miss Lindsay would soon 
play the devil with me — I met with some little 
flattering attentions from her. Mrs. Somerville 
an excellent, motherly, agreeable woman, and a 

fine family. — Mr. Ainslie, and Mrs. S , junrs., 

with Mr. , Miss Lindsay, and myself, go to 

see Esther, a very remarkable woman for recit- 
ing poetry of all kinds, and sometimes making 
Scotch doggerel herself — she can repeat by 
heart almost everything she has ever read, 
particularly Pope's Homer from end to end — 
has studied Euclid by herself, and in short, is 
a woman of very extraordinary abilities. — On 
conversing with her I find her fully equal to 
the character given of her. ' — She is very much 

1 " This extraordinary woman then moved in a very 
liumbie walk of life: — the wife of a common worifing 
fardener. She is still living, and, if I am rightly in- 
'ocmr I »>*r time is principally occupied in hei attentions 



flattered that I send for her, and that she seel 
a poet who has put om a book, as she says. — 
She is, among other things, a great florist — and 
ig" rather past the meridian of once celebrated 
beauty. 

I walk in Esther's garden with Miss Lindsay, 
and after some little chit-chat of the tender 
kind, I presented her with a proof print of my 
Nob, which she accepted with something more 
tender than gratitude. She told me many little 

stories which Miss had retailed concerning 

her and me, with prolonging pleasure — God 
bless her ! Was waited on by the magistrates, 
and presented with the freedom of the burgh. 

Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some melan- 
choly, disagreeable sensations. — Jed, pure be 
thy crystal streams, and hallowed thy sylvan 
banks ! Sweet Isabella Lindsay, may peace 
dwell in thy bosom, uninterrupted, except by 
the tumultuous throbbings of rapturous love ! 
That love-kindling eye must beam on another, 
not on me ; that graceful form must bless an- 
other's arms ; not mine ! 

Kelso. Dine with the farmers' club — all 
gentlemen, talking of high matters — each of 
them keeps a hunter from thirty to fifty pounds 
value, and attends the fox-huntings in the coun- 
try — go out with Mr. Ker, one of the club, and 
a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to lie — Mr. Ker a most 
gentlemanly, clever, handsome fellow, a widower 
with some fine children — his mind and manner 
astonishingly ' like my dear old friend Robert 
Muir, in Kalmarnock — everything in Mr. Ker's 
moat elegaat — he offers to accompany me in my 
English tour. Dine with Sir Alexander Don — 
a pretty clever fellow, but far from being a 
match for his divine lady. — A very wet day 
* * * — Sleep at Stodrlg again ; and set out for 
Melrose — visit Dryburgh, a fine old ruined ab- 
bey — still bad weather — cross Leader, and come 
up Tweed to Melrose — dine there, and visit that 
far-famed, glorious ruin — come to Selkirk, uf 
Ettrick ; the whole country hereabout, both on 
Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stony. 

Monday, — Come to Inverleithing, a famous 
shaw, and in the vicinity of the palace of Tra- 
quair, where having dined, and drank some 
Oalloway-whey, I here remain till to-morrow — 

to a little day-school, whici not being sufficient for hei 
subsistence, slie is obliged to solicit the charity of hei 
benevolent neighbours. ' Ah, who would lore th« 

lyre!'" — Cromek. 



THE BORDEK TOUR. 



52C 



Baw Elibanks and Elibraes, on the other side of 
the Tweed. 

Tuesday. — Drank tea yesternight at Pirn, with 
Mr. Horseburgh. — Breakfasted to-day with Mr. 
Ballantyne of Hollowlee — Proposal for a four- 
hcrse team to consist of Mr. Scott cf Wauchope, 
Fittieland : Logan of Logan, Fittiefurr : Ballan- 
tyne of Hollowlee, Forewynd : Horsburgh of 
Horeburgh. — Dine at a country inn, kept by a 
miller, inEarlston, the birth-place and residence 
of the celebrated Thomas a Rhymer — saw the 
ruins oi his castle — come to Berrywell. 

Wednesday. — Dine at Dunse with the farmers' 
club-company — impossible to do them justice — 
Rev, Mr. Smith a famous punster, and Mr. 
Meikle a celebrated mechanic, and inventor of 
the threshing-mills. — Thursday, breakfast at 
Berrywell, and walk into Dunse to see a famous 
knife made by a cutler there, and to be pre- 
sented to an Italian prince. — A pleasant ride 
with my friend Mr. Robert Ainslie, and his 
Bister, to Mr. Thomson's, a man who has newly 
commenced farmer, and has married a Miss 
Patty Grieve, formerly a flame of Mr. Robert 
Ainslie's. — Company — Miss Jacky Grieve, an 
amiable sister of Mrs. Thomson's, and Mr. Hood, 
an honest, worthy, facetious farmer, in the 
neighbourhood, 

Friday. — Ride to Berwick — An idle town, 
rudely picturesque. — Meet Lord Errol in walk- 
ing round the walls. — His lordship's flattering 
notice of me. — Dine with Mr. Clunzie, mer- 
chant — nothing particular in company or con- 
versation — Come up a bold shore, and over a 
wild country to Eyemouth — sup and sleep at 
Mr. Grieve's. 

Saturday. — Spend the day at Mr. Grieve's — 
made a royal arch mason of St. Abb's Lodge. i 
—Mr. William Grieve, the oldest brother, a 
joyous, warm-hearted, jolly, clever fellow — 
takes a hearty glass, and sings a good song - 
Mr. Robert, his brother, and partner in trade, 
% good fellow, but says little. Take a sail after 



1 The entry made on this occasion in the Lodge-books 
jf St. Abb's is honourable to 

" The brethren of the mystic level." 

'•' Eyemouth, mh May, 1737. 

' \t a general encampment held this day, the follow- 

mg nrethren were made royal arch masons, viz. Robert 

Jiirns, from tlie Lodge of St James's, Tarbolton, Ayr- 

■hi re, and Robert Ainslie, from U^« Lodge of St. Luke's, 



dinner. Fishing of all kinds pays tithes al 
Eyemouth. 

Sunday. — A Mr. Robinson, brewer at Ednam, 
sets out with us to Dunbar. 

The Miss Grieves very good girls.- -My Ibail- 
ship's heart got a brush from Miss Bttsey. 

Mr, William Grieve's attachment to the fa- 
mily-circle, so fond, that when he is out, which 
by the bye is often the case, he cannot go to 
bed till he see if all his sisters are sleeping 

well Pass the famous Abbey of Colding- 

ham, and Pease-bridge. — Call at Mr. Sheriff's 
where Mr. A. and I dine. — Mr. S. talkative an<3 
conceited. I talk of love to Nancy the whole 
evening, while her brother escorts home some 
companions like himself. — Sir James Hall of 
Dunglass, having heari of my being in the 
reighbourhood, comes to Mr. Sheriff's to break- 
fast — takes me to see his fine scenery on the 
stream of Dunglass — Dunglass the most roman 
tic, sweet place I ever saw — Sir James and his 
lady a pleasant happy couple. — He points out 
a walk for which he has an uncommon respect, 
as it was made by an aunt of his, to whom he 
owes much. 

Miss will accompany me to Dunbar, by 

way of making a parade of me as a sweetheart 
of hers, among her relations. She mounts an 
old cart-horse, as huge and as lean as a house ; 
a rusty old side-saddle without girth, or stii • 
rup, but fastened on with an old pillion-girth— 
herself as fine as hands could make her, in 
cream-coloured riding clothes, hat and feather, 
&c. — I, ashamed of my situation, ride like the 
devil, and almost shake her to pieces on old 
Jolly — get rid of her by refusing to call at her 
uncle's with her. 

Past through the most glorious corn-country 
I ever saw, till I reach Dunbar, a neat little 
town. — Dine with Provost Fall, an eminent 
merchant, and most respectable character, but 
undescribable, as he exhibits no marked traits. 
Mrs. Fall, a genius in painting ; fully mere 
clever in the fine arts and sciences than mj 
friend Lady Wauchope, without her consummate 

Edinburgh, l)y Jarnes Carmichael, Wm. Grieve Damef 
Dow, John Clay, Robert Grieve, &c. &c. Robct Aineli« 
paid one guinea admission dues ; but on account of R 
Burns's remarkable poetical genius, the encampment 
unanimi>usly agreed to admit him gratis, and considered 
themseiver. honoured by having a man of sucn shining 
abilities for one of their companions." 
Extracted from the Minute Book of the Lodge by 

Thomas Bowhtlt. 



THE B )IIDER TOUR. 



assurance of her own abilities. — Call with Mr. 
Robinson (\\bo, by the bye, I find to be a 
worthy, much respected man, very modest ; 
warm, social heart, which with less good sense 
than his would be perhaps with the children of 
prim precision and pride, rather inimical to that 
respect which is man's due from man) with him 
[ call on Miss Clarke, a maiden in the Scotch 
phrase, " Quid enough, but no brent new:'" a clever 
woman, with tolerable pretensions to remark 
and wit ; while time had blown the blushing 
bud of bashful modesty into the flower of easy 
confidence. She wanted to see what sort of 
an author was ; and to let him know, 



that though Dunbar was but a little town, yet 
it was not destitute of people of parts. 

Breakfast next morning at Skateraw, at Mr. 
Lee's, a farmer of great note. — Mr. Lee, an ex- 
cellent, hospitable, social fellow, rather oldish ; 
warm-hearted and chatty — a most judicious, 
sensible farmer. Mr. Lee detains me till next 
morning.— Company at dinner. — My Rev. ac- 
quaintance Dr. Bowmaker, a reverend, rattling 
old fellow. — Two sea lieutenants ; a cousin of 
the landlord's, a fellow whose looks are of that 
kind which deceived me in a gentleman at 
Kelso, and has often deceived me : a goodly 
handsome figure and face, which incline one to 
give them credit for parts which they have not. 
Mr. Clarke* a much cleverer fellow, but whose 
looks a little cloudy, and his appearance rather 
ungainly, with an every-day observer may pre- 
judice the opinion against him. — Dr. Brown, a 
medical young gentleman from Dunbar, a fellow 
whose face and manners are open and engaging. 
—Leave Skateraw for Dunse next day, along 

with collector , a lad of slender abilities 

and bashfully diffident to an extreme. 

Found Miss Ainslie, the amiable, the sen- 
sible, the good-humoured, the sweet Miss Ains- 
lie, all alone at Berrywell. — Heavenly powers, 
who know the weakness of human hearts, sup- 
port mine ! What happiness must I see only to 
pemind me that I cannot enjoy it ! 

Lammer-muir Hills, from East Lothian to 
Punse, veiy wild. — Dine with the farmer's club 
Rt Kelso. Sir John Hume and Mr. Lumsden 
there, but nothing worth remembrance when 
the following circumstance is considered — I 
ralk into Dunse before dinner, and out to 
Berrywell in the evening with Miss Ainslie — 
how well-bred, how frank, how good she is ! 
Oharming Rachael ! may thy bosom never be 



Wrung by the evils of this life of sorrows, or bj 

the villany of this world's sons ! 

Thursday. — Mr. Ker and I set out to dine at 
Mr. Hood's on our way to England. 

I am taken extremely ill with strong feverisli 
symptoms, and take a servant of Mr. Hood's to 
watch me all night — embittering remorse scares 
my fancy at the gloomy forebodings o'f death.— 
I am determined to live for the future in such a 
manner as not to be scared at the approach of 
death — I am sure I could meet him with indif- 
ference, but for " The something beyond the 
grave." — Mr. Hood agrees to accompany us to 
England if we will wait till Sunday. 

Friday. — I go with Mr. Hood to see a roup of 
an unfortunate farmer's stock — rigid economy, 
and decent industry, do you preserve me from 
being the principal dramatis persona in such a 
scene of horror. 

Meet my good old friend Mr. Ainslie, who 
calls on Mr. Hood in the evening to take fare- 
well of my hardship. This day I feel myself 
warm with sentiments of gratitude to the Great 
Preserver of men, who has kindly restored mt 
to health and strength once more. 

A pleasant walk with my young friend Dou- 
glas Ainslie, a sweet, modest, clever young 
fellow. 

Sunday, TlihMay. — Cross Tweed, and traverse 
the moors through a wild country till I reach 
Alnwick — Alnwick Castle a seat of the Duke of 
Northumberland, furnished in a most princely 
manner. — A Mr. Wilkin, agent of His Grace's, 
shows us the house and policies. Mr. Wilkin^ 
a discreet, sensible, ingenious man. 

Monday. — Come, still through by-ways, t« 
Warkworth, where we dine. — Hermitage and 
old castle. Warkworth situated very pictu- 
resque, with Coquet Island, a small rocky spot, 
the seat of an old monastery, facing it a little 
in the sea ; and the small but romantic river 
Coquet, running through it. — Sleep at Morpeth, 
a pleasant enough little town, and on next day 
to Newcastle. — Meet with a very agreeable, sen- 
sible fellow, a Mr. Chattox, who shows ujj a 
great many ci"»ilities, and who dines and supei 
with us. 

Wednesday. — Left Newcastle early in the morn 
ing, and rode over a fine country to Hexham t« 
breakfast — from Hexham to Wardrue, the cele 
brated Spa, where we slept. — Thursday — JceacJh 



THE HIGHLAND TOUE. 



521 



Longtown to dine, and part there with my good 
friends Messrs. Hood and Ker — A hiring day in 
Longtown — I am uncommonly happy to see so 
many young folks enjoying life. — I come to 
Carlisle. — (Meet a strange enough romantic ad- 
venture by the way, in falling in with a girl and 
her marr.ed sister — the girl, after some over- 
iures of gallantry on my side, sees me a little 
cut with the bottle, and offers to take me in for 
a Gretna-Green affair. — I, not being such a gull, 
as she imagines, make an appointment with 
her, by way of vive la bagatelle, to hold a con- 
ference on it when we reach town. — I meet her 



in town and give her a brush of caressing, and 
a bottle of cider ; but finding herself un peu 
trompe in her man she sheers off.) Next day I 
meet my good friend, Mr. Mitchell, and walk 
with him round the town and its environs, and 
through his printing-works, &c.— four or fiva 
hundred people employed, many of them women 
and children. — Dine with Mr. Mitchell, anl 
leave Carlisle. — Come by the coast to Annas. 
— Overtaken on the way by a curious old fish 
of a shoemaker, and miner, from Cumberland 
mines. 

\_Here the manuscript abruptly terminatet.l 



THE HIGHLAND TOUR. 



25th August, 1787. 
1 LEAVE Edinburgh for a northern tour, in 
company with my good friend Mr. Nicol, whose 
originality of humour promises me much enter- 
tainment. — Linlithgow — a fertile improved 
country — West Lothian. The more elegance 
and luxury among the farmers, I always observe 
in equal proportion, the rudeness and stu.pidi^-y 
of the peasantry. This remark I have made all 
over the Lothians, Merse, Roxburgh, &c. For 
this, among other reasons, I think that a man 
of romantic taste, a " Man of Feeling," will be 
better pleased with the poverty, but intelligent 
minds of the peasantry in Ayrshire (peasantry 
they are all below the justice of peace) than 
the opulence of a club of Merse farmers, when 
at the same time, he considers the vandalism 
of their plough-folks, &c. I carry this idea so 
far, that an unenclosed, half improven country 
is to me actually more agreeable, and gives me 
more plea^sure as a prospect, than a country 
caltivated like a garden.— Soil about Linlith- 
gow light and thin, — The town carries the ap- 
pearance of rude, decayed grandeur — charming- 
ly rural, retired situation. The old royal palace 
a tolerably fine, but melancholy ruin — sweetly 
gituated on a small elevation, by the brink of a 
loch. Shown the room where the beautiful, 
injured Mary Queen of Scots was born — a pretty 
fOtfd old Gothic church. The infamous stool 



of repentance standing, in the old Romidh way, 
on a lofty situation. 

What a poor pimping business is a Presbyte^ 
rian place of worship ; dirty, narrow, and 
squalid ; stuck in a corner of old popish gran 
deur such as Linlithgow, and much more, Mel- 
rose ! Ceremony and show, if judiciously thrown 
in, absolutely necessary for the bulk of man- 
kind, both in religious and civil matters. — Dine, 
— Go to my friend Smith's at Avon printfield- 
find nobody .but Mrs. Miller, an agreeable, sen- 
sible, modest, good body ; as useiv.l, but not so 
ornamental as Fielding's Miss Western — not 
rigidly polite d la FrangaiSjhat easy, hospitable; 
.and housewifely. 

An old lady from Paisley, a Mrs. Laws?a, 
whom I promised to call for in Paisley — like old 

lady W , and still more like Mrs. C— -, 

her conversation is pregnant with strong sense 
and just remark, but like them, a certain air of 
self-importance and a duresse in the eye, seem 
to jndicate, as the Ayrshire wife observed of her 
cow, that "she had a mind o' her ain." 

Pleasant view of Dunfermline and the rest of 
the fertile coast of Fife, as we go down to that 
dirty, ugly place, Borrowstones — see a horse- 
race and call on a friend of Mr. Nicol's, a Bailie 
Cowan, of whom I know too little to ittempt 
his portrait — Come through the rich jarsc of 
Falkirk *: pass the night. Falkirk nothing 



528 



THE HldHLANB TOUR. 



remark-ahle except the tomb of Sir John the 
Graham, over which, in the succession of time, 
four stones have been placed. — Camelon, the 
ancient metropolis of the Picts, now a small vil- 
lage in the neighbourhood of Falkirk, — Cross the 
grand canal to Carron. — Come past Larbert and 
admire a fine monument of cast-iron erected by- 
Mr. Bruce, the African traveller, to his wife. 

Pass Dunipace, a place laid out with fine 
taste — a charming amphitheatre bounded by 
Denny village, and pleasant seats down the way 
to Dunnipace, — The Carron running down the 
bosom of the whole makes it one of the most 
charming little prospects I have seen. 

Dine at Auchinbowie — Mr. Monro an excel- 
lent, worthy old man — Miss Monro an amiable, 
sensible, sweet young woman, much resembling 
Mrs. Grierson. Come to Banuockbura — Shown 
the old house where James III. finished so tra- 
gically his unfortunate life. The field of Ban- 
nockburn — the hole where glorious Bruce set 
his standard. Here no Scot can pass unin- 
terested. — I fancy to myself that I see my 
gallant, heroic countrymen coming o'er the hill 
and down upon the plunderers of their coun- 
t-y, the murderers of their fathers ; noble re- 
venge, and just hate, glowing in every vein, 
striding more and more eagerly as they approach 
the oppressive, insulting, blood-thirsty foe ! 1 
see them meet in gloriously triumphant congra- 
tulation on the victorious field, exulting in their 
heroic royal leader, and rescued liberty and in- 
dependence ! Come to Stirling. — Monday go io 
Harvieston. Go to see Caudron linn, and 
Rumbling brig, and Diel's mill. Return in the 
evening. Supper — Messrs. Doig, the school- 
master; Bell; and Captain Forrester of the 
cp.stle — Doig a queerish figure, and something 
of i- pedant — Bell a joyous fellow, who sings a 
good song. — Forrester a merry, swearin^^ lind 
of man, with a dash of the sodger. 

Tuesday Morning. — Breakfast with Captain 
Forrester — Ochel Hills — Devon River — Forth 



1 Another northern bard has sketched this eminent 

rnusician — 

•*Th». blythe Strathspey springs up, remindinsr some 
Of eights wlien Gow's old arm, (nor old the tale,) 
L'nceasing, save when reeking cans vi'-ent round, 
Made heart and heel leap light as bounding roe. 
Alas ! no more shall we behold that look 
So venerable, yet so blent with mirth, 
A.nd festive joy sedate ; that ancient garb 
tJnv;iried, — tartan hose, and bonnet blue ! 
No n-ore shall Beauty's partial eye draw forth 
Tl e rail intoxication of his strain, 



and Tieth — Allan River — Strathallan, a fine 
country, but little improved- -Cross Earn tc 
Crieff — Dine and go to Arbruchih— cold reception 
at Arbruchil — a most romantically pleasant ride 
up Earn, by Auchtertyre and Comrie to Arbru- 
chil — Sup at Crieff. 

Wednesday Morning. — Leave Crieff— Glen 
Amend — Amond river — Ossian's grave — Loch 
Fruoch — Glenquaicn — Landlord and landlady 
remarkable characters — Taymouth described in 
rhyme — Meet the Hon. Charles Townshend. 

Thursday. — Come do\7n Tay to Dunkeld^— i 
Glenlyon House — Lyon River — Druid's Temple 
— three circles of stones — the outer-most sunk 
— the second has thirteen stones remaining— 
the innermost has eight — two large detached 
ones like a gate, to the south-east — Say prayers 
in it — Pass Taybridge — Aberfeldy — described 
in rhyme — Castle Menzies — Inver — Dr. Stewart 
— sup. 

Friday — Walk with Mrs. Stewart and Beard 
to Birnam top — fine prospect down Tay — 
Craigieburn hills — Hermitage on the Franwater, 
with a picture of Ossian — Breakfast with Dr. 
Stewart — Neil Gow' plays — a short, stout-built, 
honest Highland figure, with his grayish hair 
shed on his honest social brow — an interesting 
face, marking strong sense, kind openhearted- 
ness, mixed with unmistrusting simplicity — visit 
his house — Marget Gow. 

Ride up Tummel River to Blair — Fascally a 
beautiful romantic nest — wild grandeur of the 
pass of Gilliecrankie — visit the gallant Lord 
Dundee's stone. 

Blair — Sup with the Duchess — easy and happy 
from the manners of the family — confirmed in 
?::av ^ood opinion of my friend Walker. 

■ Saturday. — Visit the scenes round Blair — 
fine, but spoiled with bad taste — Tilt and Gairie 
rivers — Falls on the Tilt — Heather seat — Ride 
in company with Sir William Murray and Mr. 
Walker, to Loch Tummel — meanderings of th* 



Mellifluous, strong, exuberantly rich ! 
No more, amid the pauses of the dance. 
Shall he repeat those measures, that in nays 
Of other years, could soothe a falling prince. 
And light his visage with a transient smile 
Of melancholy joy, — like autumn sun 
Gilding a sear tree with a passing beam! 
Or play to sportive chilv'.ren on the green 
Dancing at gloamin hour ; or willing cheer 
With strains unbought, the shepherd's bridal day.*' 
Friitsh Georgics, p. 81 



THE HIGHLAND TOUR 



529 



Rannach, which runs through quondam Struan 
Robertson's estate from Loch Rannach to Loch 
Tummel — Dine at Blair — Company — Genera,! 
Murray — Captain Murray, an honest tar — 
Sir William Murray, an honest, worthy man, 
but tormented with the hypochondria — Mrs. 
Grauam, helle ei aimahle — Miss Catchcart — 
Mrs. Murray, a painter — Mrs. King — Duchess 
and fine family, the Marquis, Lords James, Ed- 
ward, and Robert — Ladies Charlotte, Emilia, and 
children dance — Sup — Mr. Graham of Fintray. 

Come up the Garrie — Falls of Bruar — Dalde- 
cairoch — Dalwhinnie — Dine — Snow on the hills 
17 feet deep — No corn from Loch-Gairie to Dal- 
whinnie — Cross the Spey, and come down the 
stream to Pitnin — Straths rich — les environs pic- 
turesque — Craigow hill — Ruthven of Badenoch 
-r^'Ta-^Vi— -^ild '>!!(? Tia,sruificept-"-Koth.0- 
murche on the other side, and Glenmore- — 
Grant of Rothemurche's poetry — told me by 
the Duke of Gordon — Strathspey, rich and ro- 
mantic — Breakfast at Aviemore, a wild spot — 
dine at Sir James Grant's — Lady Grant, a sweet, 
pleasant body — come through mist and dark- 
ness to Dulsie, to lie. 

Tuesday. — Findhorn river — rocky banks — 
come on to Castle Cawdor, where Macbeth 
murdered King Duncan — saw the bed in which 
King Duncan was stabbed — dine at Kilravock 
— Mrs. Rose, sen., a true chieftain's wife — Fort 
George — Inverness. 

Wednesday. — Loch Ness — Braes of Ness — Ge- 
neral's hut — Falls of Fyers — Urquhart Castle 
and Strath. 

Thursday. — Come over CullodenMuir — reflec- 
tions on the field of battle — breakfast at Kilra- 
vock — old Mrs, Rose, sterling sense, warm 
heart, strong passions, and honest pride, all in 
an uncommon degree — Mrs. Rose, jun., a little 
milder than the mother — this perhaps owing to 
her being younger — Mr. Grant, minister at 
Calder, resembles Mr. Scott at Inverleithing — 
Mrs. Rose and Mrs. Grant accompany us to 
Sildiummie — two young ladies — Miss Rose, 
who sung two Gaelic songs, beautiful and lovely 
— Miss Sophia Brodie, most agreeable and ami- 
able — both of them gentle, mild ; the sweetest 
creatures on earth, and happiness be with them ! 
— Dine at Nairn — fall in with a pleasant enough 
gentleman. Dr. Stewart, who had been long 
abroad with his father in the forty-five ; and 
Mr. Falconer, a spare, irascible, warm-hearted 
Borland, and a nonjuror — Brodie-house to lie. 
34 



Friday. — Forres — famous stone at Forres — 

Mr. Brodie tells me that the muir where Shak- 

speare lays Macbeth's witch-meeting is still 

haunted — that the country folks won't pass it by 

night. 

* -x- *• * 

Venerable ruins of Elgin Abbey — A grandci 
effect at first glance than Melrose, but not near 
so beautiful — Cross Spey to Fochabers- -fine 
palace, worthy of the generous proprietor— Diet 
— company, Duke and Duchess, Ladies Char« 
lotte and Magdeline, Col. Abercrombie, and* 

Lady, Mr. Gordon and Mr. , a clergyman, 

a venerable, aged figure — the Duke makes mc 
happier than ever great man did — noble, 
princely ; yet mild, condescending, and affable ; 
gay and kind — the Duchess witty and sensible 
— Gof^ bless them ! 

Conie to vJuUcii to lie — nitherto tue countr> 
is sadly poor and unimproven. 

Come to Aberdeen — meet with Mr. Chalmers, 
printer, a facetious fellow — Mr. Ross a fine 
fellow, like Professor Tytler, — Mr. Marshal 
one of the jpoetcz minores — Mr. Sheriffs, author 
of " Jamie an^ Bess," a little decrepid body 
with some abilities — Bishop Skinner, a nonjuror, 
son of the author of ** TuUochgorum," a man 
whose mild, venerable manner is the most 
marked of any in so young a man — Professor 
Gordon, a good-natured, jolly-looking professor 
— Aberdeen, a lazy town — ^near Stonhive, the 
coast a good deal romantic — meet my relations 
— Robert Burns, writer, in Stonhive, one of 
those who love fun, a gill, and a punning joke, 
and have not a bad heart — his wife a sweet 
hospitable body, without any affectation of what 
is called town-breeding. 

Tuesday. — Breakfast with Mr. Burns — lie at 

Lawrence Kirk — Album library — Mrs. a 

jolly, frank, sensible, love-inspiring widow — 
Howe of the Mearns, a rich, cultivated, but still 
unenclosed country. 

Wednesday. — Cross North Esk river and a 
rich country to Craigow. 

* * * -x- 

Go to Montrose, that finely-situated handsome 
town — breakfast at Muthie, and sail along that 
wild rocky coast, and see the famous caverns, 
particularly the Gariepot — land and dine at 
Arbroath — stately ruins of Arbroath Abbey — 
come to Dundee through a fertile country — 
Dundee a low-lying, but pleasant town— old 
Steeple — Tay frith — Broughty Castle, a finelj 
situated ruin, jutting into the Tay. 



530 



THE POETS ASSIGNMENT. 



Friday. — Breakfast with the Miss Scotts — Miss 
Bess Scott like Mrs. Greenfield — my hardship 
almost in love with her — come through the rich 
harvests and fine hedge-rows of the Carse of 
Gowrie, along the romantic margin of the 
Grampian hills, to Perth — fine, fruitful, hilly, 
woody country round Perth. 

Saturday Morning. — Leave Perth — come up 
<ltrathearn to Endermay — ^fite, fruitful, culti- 



vated Strath — the scene of "Bessy Bell, and 
Mary Gray," near Perth — fine scenery on the 
banks of the May — Mrs. Belcher, gawcie, 
frank, affable, fond of rural sports, hunting, 
&c. — Lie at Kinross — ^reflections in a fit af th« 
colic. 

Sunday. — Pass through a cold, barren country 
to Queensferry — dine — cross the ferry and on t« 
Edinburgh. 



THE POET'S ASSIGNMENT OF HIS WORKS. 



Know all men by these presents that I Robert 
Burns of Mossgiel : whereas I intend to leave 
Scotland and go abroad, and having acknow- 
ledged myself the father of a child named Eli- 
zabeth, begot upon Elizabeth Paton in Largie- 
side : and whereas Gilbert Burns in Mossgiel, 
my brother, has become bound, and hereby 
binds and obliges himself to aliment, clothe, and 
educate my said natural child in a suitable 
manner as if she was his own, in case her 
mother chuse to part with her, and that until 
she arrive at the age of fifteen years. There- 
fore, and to enable the said Gilbert Burns to 
make good his said engagement, wit ye me to 
have assigned, disponed, conveyed and made 
over to, and in favours of, the said Gilbert 
Burns, his heirs, executors, and assignees, who 
are always to be bound in like manner, with 
himself, all and sundry goods, , gear, corns, 
cattle, horses, nolt, sheep, household furniture, 
and all other moveable effects of whatever kind 
that I shall leave behind me on my departure 
from this Kingdom, after allowing for my part 
of the conjunct debts due by the said Gilbert 
Burns and me as joint tacksmen of the farm of 
Mossgiel. And particularly without prejudice 
of the foresaid generality, the profits that may 
arise from the publication of my poems pre- 
sently in the press. And also, I hereby dispone 
and convey to him in trust for behoof of my said 
katural daughter, the copyright of said poems 
in bc far as I can dispose cf the same by law, 
after she arrives at the above age of fifteen 
years complete Surrogating and substituting 
the said Gilbert Burns my brother and his fore- 
eaids in my full right, title, room and place of 
the whole premises, with power to him to 
intromit with, and dispose upon the same at 
Pleasure, and in general to do every other thing 



in the premises that I could have done myself 
before granting hereof, but always with and 
under the conditions before expressed. And I 
oblige myself to warrant this disposition and 
assignation from my own proper fact and deed 
allenarly. Consenting to the registration hereof 
in the books of Council and Session, or any 
other Judges books competent, therein to remain 
for preservation and constitute. 

Proculars, &c. In witness whereof I havt 
wrote and signed these presents, consisting of 
this and the preceding page, on stamped paper, 
with my own hand, at the Mossgiel, the twenty- 
second day of July, one thousand seven hiindred 
and eighty-six years. 

(Signed) ROBERT BURNS. 



Upon the twenty-fourth day of July, one thou 
sand seven hundred and eighty-six years, I. 
William Chalmer, Nctary Publick, past to tht 
Mercat Cross of Ayr head Burgh of the Sheriff 
dome thereof, and thereat I made due and law 
ful intimation of the foregoing disposition ani 
assignation to his Majesties lieges, that th»y 
might not pretend ignorance thereof by reading 
the same over in presence of a number of people 
assembled. Whereupon William Crooks, writer, 
in Ayr, as attorney for the before designee 
Gilbert Burns, protested that the same was law 
fully intimated, and asked and took instruments 
in my hatds. These things were done betwisi 
the hours of ten and eleven forenoon, before 
and in presence of William M'Cubbin, and Wil 
liam Eaton, apprentices to the Sheriff Clerf 
of Ayr, witnesses to the premises. 
(Signed) 

William Chalmeb, N P* 

William M'Cubbin, Witness. 

William Eaton, Witness. 



GLOSSARY. 


*■ Thb ch and gh have always the guttural sound. The sound of the English diphthong oo is 30tnm<uiil) 


elled ou. The French u, a sound which often occurs in the Scottish language, is marked oo or tii. The a, 


genuine Scottish words, except when forming a diphthong, or followed by an e mute after a singk con- 


nant, sounds generally like the broad English a in wall. The Scottish diphthong ae always, and ea verf 


ten, sound like the French e masculine. The Scottish diphthong ey sounds like the Latin ei." 


A. 


Aqueesh, between. 


Bauld, bold. 


', all. 


Aught, possession, as "in a' my 


Baws'nt, having a white stripe 


back, away, aloof, backwards. 


aught," in all my possession. 


down the face. 


beigh, at a shy distance. 


Auld, old. 


Be, to let be, to give over, to ceaso. 


^boon, above, up. 


Auld-farran', auld farrant, saga- 


Beets, boots. 


Abread, abroad, in sight, to publish. 


cious, prudent, cunning. 


Bear, barley. 


Abreed, in breadth. 


Ava, at all. 


Bearded-bear, barley with itl 


Ae, one. 


Awa, away, begone. 


bristly head. 


Aff, oflF. 


Aiofu', awful. 


Beastie, diminutive of beast. 


Aff-loof, off-hand, extempore, 


Auld-shoon, old shoes literally, a 


Beet, beek, to add fuel to a fire, to 


without premeditation. 


discarded lover metaphori- 


bask. 


Afore, before. 


cally. 


Beld, bald. 


Aft, oft. 


Aumos, gift to a beggar. 


Belyve, by and by, presently, 


Aften, often. 


Aumos-dish, a beggar's dish in 


quickly. 


Agley, off the right line, wrong. 


which the aumos is received. 


Ben, into the spence or parlour. 


awry. 


Awn, the beard of barley, oats, &o. 


Benrnost-bore, the remotest hole, 


Aiblim, perhaps. 


Awnie, bearded. 


the innermost recess. 


Ain, own. 


Ayont, beyond. 


Bethankit, grace after meat 


Aim, iron, a tool of that metal, a 




Beuk, a book. 


mason's chisel. 


B. 


Bicker, a kind of wooden dish, a 


Airles, earnest money. 


Ba', ball. 


short rapid race. 


Airl-penny, a silver penny given 


Babie-clouts, child's first clothes. 


Bickering, careering, hurrying 


as erles or hiring money. 


Backets, ash-boards, as pieces of 


with quarrelsome intent 


Airt, quarter of the heaven, point 


backet for removing ashes. 


Birnie, birnie ground is where 


of the compass. 


Backlins, comin', coming back. 


thick heath has been burnt 


Agee, on one side. 


returning. 


leaving the birns, or uncon- 


Attx>ur, moreover, beyond, besides. 


Back-yett, private gate. 


sumed stalks, standing up 


Aith, an oath. 


Baide, endured, did stay. 


sharp and stubley. 


Aits, oats. 


Baggie, the belly. 


Bie, or bield, shelter, a sheltered 


Aiver, an old horse. 


Bairn, a child. 


place, the sunny nook of a 


Aizle, a hot cinder, an ember of 


Bairn-time, a family of children. 


wood. 


wood. 


a brood. 


Bien, wealthy, plentiful. 


Alake, alas. 


Baith, both. 


Big, to build. 


Alane, alone. 


Ballets, ballanta, ballads. 


Biggin, building, a house. 


Akwart, awkward, athwart 


Ban, to swear. 


Bigqit, built 


Amaist, almost. 


Bane, bone. 


Bill, a bull. 


Amang, among. 


Bang, to beat, to strive, to excel. 


Billie, a brother, a young te Jow, 


An', and, if. 


Bannock, flat, round, soft cake. 


a companion. 


A^nce, once. 


Bardie, diminutive of bard 


Bing, a heap of grain potatoes, 


An«, one. 


Bxrejit, barefooted. 


Ac. 


inent, ov ^ragainst, concerning. 


Barley-bree, barley -broo, blood of 


Birdie-cocks, young cocks, still he 


about 


barley, malt liquor. 


longing to the brood. 


mither, another. 


Barmie, of, or like barm, yeasty. 


Birk, birch. 


•e, ashes of wood, remafns of a 


Batch, a crew, a gang. 


Birkie, a clever, a forward 'coi* 


hearth fir». 


Batts, botte. 


ceited fellow. 


tier abroad, jtirring in a lively 


Bauckie-bird, the bat 


Birring, the noise of partridges 


manner 


Baudrofu, a cat 


when they rise. 


(531) 



532 



GLOSSARY. 



Birses, bristles. 

Sit, crisis, nick of time, place. 

Bizz, a bustle, to buzz. 

Black's the grim', as black as the 
ground. 

Blast ie, a shrivelled dwarf, a term 
of contempt, full of mis- 
chi3f. 

BlaMit, blasted. 

dilate, bashful, sheepish. 

Slalher, bladder. 

Slaud, a flat piece of anything, to 
slap. 

Blatudin-shower, a heavy driving 
rsiiu; a blauding signifies a 
beating. 

BhtD, to blow, to boast ; " blaw i' 
my lug," to flatter. 

Bleerit, bedimmed, eyes hurt with 
weeping. 

h^eer my een, dim my eyes. 

Bleezing, bleeze, blazing, flame. 

Blcllum, idle talking fellow. 

Blether, to talk Mly. 

Bleth'rin, talking idly. 

Blink, a little while, a smiling 
look, to look kindly, to shine 
by fits. 

Blinker, a term of contempt: it 
means, too, a lively engaging 
girl. 

Blinkin', smirking, smiling with 
the eyes, looking lovingly. 

Blirt and hlearie, out-burst of grief, 
with wet eyes. 

Blue-gown, one of those beggars 
who get annually, on the 
king's birth-day, a blue cloak 
or gown with a badge. 

Bluid, blood. 

Blype, a shred, a large piece. 

Bobhit, the obeisance made by a 
lady. 

Bock, to vomit, to gush intermit- 
tently. 

Bocked, gushed, vomited. 

Bodle, a copper coin of the value 
of two pennies Scots. 

Bogie, a small morass. 

Bonnie, or bonny, handsome, beau- 
tiful. 

Bonnock, a kind of thick cake of 
brea d, a small jannock or loaf 
made of oatmeal. See Ban- 
nock. 

Boord, a board. 

Bo) e, a hole in a wall, a cranny. 

Boortree, the shrub elder, planted 
much of old in hedges of barn- 
yards and gardens. 

fim^st, behoved, must needs, wil- 
fulness. 

Botch, blotch, an angry tumour. 

Bouting, drinking, making merry 
with liquor. 

Bowk, body. 

Bow-kail, cabbage. 

Boic-hought, out-kneed, crooked at 
the knee joint. 

eiowt, bowlt, bended, crooked. 

Brackens, fern. 

Brae, a declivity, a precipice, the 
slope of a hill. 

Braid, broad. 



Braik, an instrument for rough- 
dressing flax. 

Brainge, to run rashly forward, to 
churn violently. 

Braing't, "the horse braing't," 
plunged and fretted in the 
harness. 

Brak, broke, became insolvent. 

Branks, a kind of wooden curb for 
horses- 

Brankie, gaudy. 

Brash, a sadden illness. 

Brats, coarse clothes, rags, &g. 

Brattle, a short race, hurry, fury. 

Braw, fine, handsome. 

Brawlys, or hrawlie, very well, 
finely, heartily, bravely. 

Braxies, diseased sheep. 

Breastie, diminutive of breast. 

Breastit, did spring up or forward ; 
the act of mounting a horse. 

Brechame, a horse-collar. 

Breckens, fern. 

Breef, an invulnerablQ or irresisti- 
ble spell. 

Breeks, breeches. 

Brent, bright, clear; "a brent 
brow," a brow high and 
smooth. 

Brewin', brewing, gathering. 

Bree, juice, liquid. 

Brig, a bridge. 

Brunstane, brimstone. 

Brisket, the breast, the bosom. 

Brither, a brother. 

Brock, a badger. 

Brogue, a hum, a trick. 

Broo, broth, liquid, water. 

Broose, broth, a race at country 
weddings; he who first reaches 
the bridegroom's house on re- 
turning from church wins the 
broose. 

Browst, ale, as much malt liquor 
as is brewed at a time. 

Brugh, a burgh. 

Bruilsie, a broil, combustion. 

Brunt, did burn, burnt. 

Brust, to burst, burst. 

Buchan-bullers, the boiling of the 
sea among the rocks on the 
coast of Buchan. 

Buckskin, an inhabitant of Vir- 
ginia. 

Buff our beef, thrash us soundly, 
give us a beating behind and 
before. 

Buff and blue, the colours of the 
Whigs. 

Buirdly, stout made, broad built 

Bum-clock, the humming beetle 
that flies in the summer even- 
ings. 

Bummin, humming as bees, buz- 
zing. 

Bummle, to blunder, a drone, ar 
idle fellow. 

Bummler, a blunderer, one whose 
noise is greater than his work. 

Bunker, a window-seat. 

Bure, did bear. 

Burn, burnie, water, a rivulet, a 
small stream which is heard 
as it runs. 



B'^rniewin', burn tha wind, tb4 

blacksmith. 

Burr-thistle, the thistle of Soot 
lanu. 

Buskit, dressed. 

Buskit-nest, an ornamented resi 
dence. 

Busle, a bustle. 

But, bot, without. 

But and ben, the country kitche* 
and parlour. 

By himself, lunatic, distrfc-eted, be- 
side himself. 

Byke, a bee-hive, a wild bee-nest 

Byre, a cow-house, a sheep-pen. 

C. 

Ca', to call, to name, to drive. 
Ca't, called, driVen, calved. 
Cadger, a carrier. 
Gadie, or caddie, a person, a younj 

fellow, a public messenger. 
Caff, chaff". 
Cadrd, a tinker, a maker of horn 

spuons and teller of fortunes. 
Cairn, a loose heap of stones, a 

rustic monument. 
Calf-ioard, a small enclosure tot 

calves. 
Calimanco, a certain kind of cotton 

cloth worn by ladies. 
Callan, a boy. 
Caller, fresh. 
Callet, a loose woman, a follower 

of a camp. 
Cannie, gentle, mild, dexterous. 
Cannilie, dexterously, gently. 
Cantie, or canty, cheerful, merry. 
Cantraip, a charm, a spell. 
Cap-stane, cape-stone, topmost 

stone of the building. 
Car, a rustic cart with or without 

wheels. 
Careerin', moving cheerfully. 
Castock, the stalk of a cabbage. 
Carl, an old man. 
Carl-hemp, the male stalk of hemp, 

easily known by its superior 

strength and stature, and 

being without seed. 
Carlin, a stout old woman. 
Cartes, cards. 
Caudron, a cauldron. 
Cauk and keel, chalk and red clay 
Cauld, cold. 
Caup, a wooden drinking vesselt, « 

cup. 
Cavie, a hen-coop. 
Chanter, drone of a bagpipe. 
Chap, a person, a fellow. 
Chaup, a stroke, a blow. 
Cheek for chow, close and unit^a 

brotherly, side by side. 
Cheekit, cheeked. 
Cheep, a chirp, to chirp. 
Chiel, or cheal, a young fellow. 
Chimin, or chimlie, a fire-grate^ 

fire-place. 
Chimla-lug, the fire-side. 
Chirps, cries of a young bird. 
Chittering, shivering, trembling. 
Chockin, choking. 
Chow, to chew ; a quid of toVaoea 
^^ckie, a brood-hen. 



(GLOSSARY. 



533 



CTiuffie, fat-faced. 


Caiier, the inhabitant of a cot- 


ice, practised in Scotland, 


Clachan, a small village about a 


house, or cottage. 


called curling. 


church, a hamlet. 


Couthie, kind, loving. 


Curlie, curled, whose hair fallj 


Clai'se, or claea, clothes. 


Cove, a cave. 


naturally in ringlets. 


Ciaith, cloth. 


Coice, to terrify, to keep under, to 


Curling, a well-known game oe 


Claithivg, clothing. 


lop. 


the ice. 


Clavers and Jtavers, agreeable nc 


Cowp, to barter, to tumble over. 


Curmurring, murmuring, a sligbi 


sense, to talk foolishly. 


Cowp the cran, to tumble a full 


rumbling noise. 


Clapper-claps, the clapper o' t 


bucket or basket. 


Cnrpin, the crupper, the rump. 


mill : it is now silenced. 


Coicpit, tumbled. 


Curple, the rear. 


Clap-daclx' , clapper of a mill. 


Coicrin, cowering. 


Cushat, the dove, or wood-pigeou 


'Jlartie, dirty, filthy. 


Coicte, a colt. 


Cutty, short, a spoon broken in th# 


CUirhit wrote. 


Cosie, snug. 


middle. 


Chi ah, an idle tale. 


Crabbit, crabbed, fretful. 


Cutty Stool, or, Creepie Chair, *hfl 


Clutter, to tell little idle stories, 


Creuks, a disease of horses. 


seat of shame, stool of re- 


an idle story. 


Crack, conversation, to converse. 


pentance. 


Claught, snatched at, laid hold of. 


to boast. 




Chtnt, to clean, to scrape. 


Crackin', cracked, conversing. 


D. 


Clauted, scraped. 


conversed. 


Daddie, a father. 


Claic, to scratch. 


Craft, or croft, a field near a house, 


Baffin, merriment, foolishness. 


deed, to clothe. 


in old husbandry. 


Daft, merry, giddy, foolish ; Da^ U 


Cleek, hook, snatch. 


Craig, craigie, neck. 


buckie, mad fish. 


Cleekin, a brood of chickens, or 


Craiks, cries or calls incessantly, a 


Daimen, rare, now and then ; Dai- 


ducks. 


bird, the corn-rail. 


men icker, an ear of corn oc 


Clegs, the gad flies. 


Crambo-clink, or cramho-jingle, 


casionally. 


Clinhin, " clinking down," sitting 


rhymes, doggrel verses. 


Dainty, pleasant, good- iumoured, 


down hastily. 


Crank, the noise of an ungreased 


agreeable, rare. 


'JUnhum-hell, the church bell ; he 


wheel — metaphorically inhar- 


Dandered, wandered. 


who rings it ; a sort of beadle. 


monious verse. 


Darklins, darkling, without light. 


Clips, wool-shears. 


Crankous, fretful, captious. 


Daud, to thrash, to abuse ; .'^andin- 


Clishmaclaver, idle conversation. 


Cranreuch, the hoar-frost, called in 


showers, rain urged by wind 


Clock, to hatch, a beetle. 


Nithsdale " frost-rhyme." 


Daur, to dare; Daurt, dared. 


Clockin, hatching. 


Crap, a crop, to crop. 


Daurg, or Daurk, a day's labour. 


Cloot, the hoof of a cow, sheep, 


Craw, a crow of a cock, a rook. 


Daur, daurna, dare, dare not. 


&o. 


Cr<iel, a basket, to have one's wits 


Davoc, diminutive of Davie, aa 


Clootie, a familiar name for the 


in a creel, to be crazed, to be 


Davie is of David. 


devil. 


fascinated. 


Dawd, a large piece. 


Cloitr, a bump, or swelling, after 


Creshie, greasy. 


Daicin, dawning of the day. 


a blow. 


Crood, or Crorid, to coo as a dove. 


Dawtit, dawtet, fondled, caressed. 


Cloutoi, repairing with cloth. 


Croon, a hollow and continued 


Dearies, diminutive of dears, 


Cluds, clouds. 


moan; to make a noise like 


sweethearts. 


Clunk, the sound in setting down 


the low roar of a bull; to 


Dearthfu', dear, expensive. 


an empty bottle. 


hum a tune. 


Deave, to deafen. 


'Joaxin, wheedling. 


Crooning, humming. 


Deil-ma-care, no matter for all 


Coble, a fishing-boat. 


Crouchie, crook-backed. 


that. 


Cod, a pillow. 


Cronse, cheerful, courageous. 


Deleerit, delirious. 


Coft, bought. 


Crously, cheerfully, courageo isly. 


Descrive, to describe, to perceive 


Cog, and coggie a wooden dish. 


Croivdie, a composition of oat/ieal. 


Deuks, ducks. 


^nila, from Kyle, a district in 


boiled water and t..tter; 


Dight, to wipe, to clean corn from 


Ayrshire, so called, saith tra- 


sometimes made fro?/, the 


chaff. 


dition, from Coil, or Coilus, a 


broth of beef, muttr n, rtc &c. 


Ding, to worst, to push, to surpass, 


Pictish monarch. 


Crovxlie time, breakfast time. 


to excel. 


Collie, a general, and sometimes a 


Croiolin, crawling, a deformed 


Dink, neat, lady-like. 


particular name for country 


creeping thing. • 


Dinna, do not. 


curs. 


Cnimmie's nicks, marks on the 


Dirl, a slight tremulous sti^Ve oi 


OJlie-shnngie, a quarrel among 


horns of a cow. 


pain, a tremulous motion. 


dogs, an Irish row. 


Crummock, Crummet, a cow with 


Distain, stain. 


Ccmmann, command. 


crooked horns. 


Dizzen, a dozen. 


Convoyed, accoiipanied lovingly. 


Crummock driddle, walk slowly, 


Dochter, daughter. 


CooUd in her linens, cool'd in her 


leaning on a staff with a 


Doited, stupified, silly from age^ 


death-shift. 


crooked head. 


Dolt, stupified, crazed; also a foci 


(7vK^<£, the cud. 


Crttmp-crimpin, hard and brittle, 


Donsie, unlucky, aifectedly neai 


Coof, a blockhead, a ninny. 


spoken of bread; frozen snow 


and trim, pettish. 


Cookit, appeared and disappeared 


yielding to the foot. 


Doodle, to dandle. 


by fits. 


Crunt, a blow on the head with a 


Dool, sorrow, to lament, to mourn 


Ooose'-, a stallion. 


cudgel. 


Doos, doves, pigeons. 


Const, did cast. 


Cuddle, to clasp and caress. 


Dorty, saucy, nice. 


fjoot, the ankle, a species of water- 


Cummock, a short staff, with a 


Douse, or douce, sober, wise, prn 


fowl. 


crooked head. 


dent. 


Corbies, blood crows. 


Curch, a covering for the head, a 


Douccly, soberly, prudently. 


Cootie, a wooden di?b, rough- 


kerchief. 


Dough t, was or were able. 


legged. 


Curchie, a cuyf-spy, female obei- 


Doup, backside. 


Core, corps, party, clan. 


sance. 


Doup-skelper, one that strikes tn 


^orn't. fed with oats. 


Curler, a play-^r at a game on tb« 


tail. 



534 


. 

GIOSSaKY. 




^rnr and din, sullen ar i sallow. 


J^addom't, fathomed, measured 


Fleech, to s:ip]»iicate in a flatterinf 


Deviser, more prudenl. 


with the extended arms. 


manne?. 


Doio, am or are able, c.n. 


Faes, foes. 


Fleechin, supplicating. 


Vowff, pithless, war^'ing force. 


Faem, foam of the sea. 


Fleesh, a fleece. 


Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue, 


Faiket, forgiven or excused, aba- 


Fleg, a kick, a random blow, • 


&c., half asleep. 


ted, a demand. 


fight. 


Downa, am or are not able, can- 


Fainness, gladness, overcome with 


Flether, to decoy by fair wordi. 


not. 


joy. 


Flethrin, flether's, flattering- 


Doylt, wearied, exhausted. 


Fairin', fairing, a present brought 


smooth wheedling words. 


Dozen, stupified, the effects of age, 


from a fair. 


Fley, to scare, to frighten. 


to dozen, to benumb. 


Fallow, fellow. 


Flichter, fiichtering, to flu^tei M 


Vrab, a young female beggar ; to 


Fand, did find. 


young nestlings dc when tliaa 


spot, to stain. 


Farl, a cake of bread j third part 


dam approache/?. 


Drap, a drop, to drop. 


of a cake. 


Flinders, shreds, broken pieces. 


Drapping, dropping. 


Fash, trouble, care, to trouble, to 


Flingin-tree, a piece of timbe? 


Draunting, drawling, speaking 


care for. 


hung by way of pai tition be- 


with a sectarian tone. 


Fasheous, troublesome. 


tween two horses in a stable; 


Dreep, to ooze, to drop. 


Fasht, troubled. 


a flail. 


Dreighy tedious, long about it, lin- 


Fasten e'en, Fasten's even. 


Flisk,fli8ky, to fret at the yoke. 


gering. 


Faught, fight. 


Flisket, fretted. 


Dribble, drizzling, trickling. 


Faugh, a single furrow, out of lea, 


Flitter, to vibrate like the wings 


Driddle, the motion of one who 


fallow. 


of small birds. 


tries to dance but moves the 


Fauld, and Fald, a fold for sheep. 


Flittering, fluttering, vibrating, 


middle only. 


to fold. 


moving tremulously from 


Drift, a drove, a flight of fowls, 


Faut, fault. 


place to place. 


snow moved by the wind. 


Fawsont, decent, seemly. 


Flunkie, a servant in livery. 


Droddum, the breech. 


Feal, loyal, steadfast. 


Flyte, fiyting, scold; flyting. 


Drone, part of a bagpipe, the 


Fearfu', fearful, frightful. 


scolding. 


chanter. 


Fear't, affrighted. 


Foor, hastened. 


Droop rumpl't, that droops at *ie 


Feat, neat, spruce, clever. 


Foord, a ford. 


crupper. 


Fecht, to fight. 


Forbears, forefathers. 


Droukit, wet. 


Fechtin', fighting. 


Fbrbye, besides. 


Drouth, thirst, drought 


Feck and/e/fc, number, quantity. 


Forfairn, distressed, worn out. 


Drucken, drunken. 


Fecket, an under-waistcoat. 


jaded, forlorn, destitute. 


Drumly, muddy. 


Feekfu', large, brawny, stout. 


Forgather, to meet, to encounter 


Drummock, or Drammock, meal 


Feckless, puny, weak, silly. 


with. 


and water mixed, raw. 


Feckly, mostly. 


Forgie, to forgive. 


Drunt, pet, sour humour. 


Feg, a fig. 


Forinawed, worn out. 


Dub, a small pond, a hollow filled 


Fegs, faith, an exclamation. 


Forjesket, jaded with fatigue. 


with rain water. 


Feide, feud, enmity. 


Foil', full, drunk. 


Duds, rags, clothes. 


Fell, keen, biting; the flesh im- 


Foughten, forfoughten, troubled. 


Duddie, ragged. 


mediately under the skin; 


fatigued. 


Dung-dang, worsted, pushed, 


level moor. 


Foul-thief, the devil, th« arch- 


stricken. 


Felly, relentless. 


fiend. 


Dunted, throbbed, beaten. 


Fend, Fen, to make a shift, con- 


Fouth, plenty, enough, or mor« 


Dush-dunsh, to push, or butt as a 


trive to live. 


than enough. 


ram. 


Ferlie ox ferley, to wonder, a won- 


Fow, a measure, a bushel: also 


Dusht, overcome with superstitious 


der, a term of contempt. 


a pitchfork. 


fear, to drop down suddenly. 


Fetch, to pull by fits. 


Frae, from. 


Dyvor, bankrupt, or about to be- 


Fetch't, pull'd intermittently. 


Freath, froth, the frothing of ale 


come one. 


Fey, strange; one marked for 


in the tankard. 




death, predestined. 


Frien', friend. 


E. 


Fidge, to fidget, fidgeting. 


Frosty -ealker, the heels and front 


E'e, the eye. 


Fidgin-fain, tickled with pleasure. 


of a horse-shoe, turned sharp- 


Een, the eyes, the evening. 


Fient, fiend, a petty oath. 


ly up for riding on an icy 


Eebree, the eyebrow. 


Fien ma care, the devil may 


road. 


Eenin', the evening. 


care. 


Fu', full. 


Eerie, frighted, haunted, dreading 


Fier, sound, healthy ; a brother, a 


Fud, the scut or tail of the :.are, 


spirits. 


friend. 


coney, &c. 


Eild, old age. 


Fierrie, bustle, activity. 


Fuff, to blow intermittently 


Elbuck, the elbow. 


Fissle, to make a rustling noise, to 


jPw-Aani, full-handed; said of '^^je 


Eldritch, ghastly, frightful, elvish. 


fidget, bustle, fuss. 


well to live in the world. 


Sr>', end. 


Fit, foot. 


Funnie, full of merriment. 


Enbrugh, Edinburgh. 


Fittie-lan, the nearer horse of 


Fur-ahin, the hindmost horse on 


Eneugh, and aneuch, enough. 


the hindmost pair in the 


the right hand when plough- 


Especial, especially. 


plough. 


ing. 


Ether-stone, stone formed by ad- 


Fizz, to make a hissing noise, fuss, 


Furder, futther, succeed. 


ders, an adder bead. 


disturbance. 


Furm, a form,- a bench. 


Ettle, to try, attempt, aim. 


Flaffen, the motion of rags in the 


Fusionless, spiritless, without sap 


Eydent, diligent. 


wind; of wings. 


or soul. 




Flainen, flannel. 


Fyke, trifling cares, to be in a fus^ 


F. 


Flandrekins, foreign generals, sol- 


about trifles. 


Fa', fall, lot, to tall, fate. 


dier? of Flanders. 


Fyte, to soil, to dirty. 


Pa' tha% \ c enjoy, to try, to inherit. 


Flang, threw with violence. 


Fylt, soiled, dirtied. 



GLOSSARY. 



53o 



G. 


Glieb o' Ian', a portion of ground. 


Guidman and guidwife, the mastei 




The ground belonging to a 


and mistress of the house; 


Vah, the month, to speak boldly or 


manse is called "the glieb," 


young guidman, a man newly 


pertly. 


or portion. 


married. 


Galerlunzie, wallet-man, or tinker. 


Glint, glintin', to peep. 


Gully or Gidlie, a large knife. 


Gae, to go; gaed, wentj gaiie or 


Glinted by, went brightly past. 


Gulravage, joyous mischief. 


gaen, gone ; gaun, going. 


Gloamin, the twilight. 


Gumlie, muddy. 


Gaet or gate, way, manner, road. 


Gloamin-shot, twilight-musing; a 


Gumption, discernment, knuw 


Gaira, parts of a lady's gown. 


shot in the twilight. 


ledge, talent. 


Gang, to go, to walk. 


rjlowr, to stare, to look ; a stare. 


Gusty, gust/u', tasteful. 


Gangrel, a wandering person. 


a look. 


Gut-scraper, a fiddler. 


Jar', to make, to force to ; gar't, 


Glowran, amazed, looking suspi- 


Gutcher, grandsire. 


forced to. 


ciously, gazing. 




Qarten, a garter. 


Glum, displeased. 


H; 


Qobh, wise, sagacious, talkative. 


Gor-cocks, the red-game, red-cock. 


ffa', hall. 


to converse. 


or moor-cock. 


Ha' Bible, the great Bible that liei 


iratxy, failing in body. 


Gowan, the flower of the daisy. 


in the hall. 


Gaucy, jolly, large, plump. 


dandelion, hawkweed, Ac. 


Haddin', house, home, dwelling 


Gaud and gad, a rod or goad. 


Gowany, covered with daisies. 


place, a possession. 


Gattd»man, one who drives the 


Goavan, walking as if blind, or 


Hae, to have, to accept. 


horses at the i lough. 


without an aim. 


Eaen, had (the participle of hae) 


Gaun, gcing. 


Oowd, gold. 


haven. 


Gaunted, yawned, longed. 


Gowl, to howl. 


Eaet, Jient haet, a petty oath oi 


Gaickie, a thoughtless person, and 


Gowff, a fool; the game of golf. 


negation; nothing. 


something weak. 


to strike, as the bat does the 


Rajfet, the temple, the side of th^ 


Gayliea, gylie, pretty well. 


ball at golf. 


head. 


Gear, riches, goods of any kind. 


Gowk, term of contempt, the 


Hajfflins, nearly half, partly, not 


Geek, to toss the head in wanton- 


cuckoo. 


fully grown. 


ness or scorn. 


Grane or grain, a groan, to groan ; 


Hag, a gulf in mosses and moors^ 


Ged, a pike. 


graining, groaning. 


moss-ground. 


Gentles, great folks. 


Graip, a pronged instrument for 


Haggis, a kind of pudding, boiled 


Genty, elegant. 


cleaning cowhouses. 


in the stomach of a cow, or 


Geordie, George, a guinea, called 


Graith, accoutrements, furniture, 


sheep. 


Geordie from the head of 


dress. 


Hain, to spare, to save, to lay out 


King George. 


Grannie, grandmother. 


at interest. 


Get and geat, a child, a young 


Grape, to grope ; grapet, groped. 


Hain'd, spared; hain'd gear. 


one. 


Great, grit, intimate, familiar. 


hoarded money. 


Ghatst, ghaistia, a ghost. 


Gree, to agree ; to bear the gree, to 


Hairst, harvest. 


Gie, to give; gied, gave,* gien, 


be decidedly victor; gree't, 


Haith, a petty oath. 


given. 


agreed. 


Haivers, nonsense, speaking with- 


Gi/tie, diminutive of gift. 


Green-graff, green grave. 


out thought. 


Gighta, laughing maidens. 


Gruesome, loathsomely, grim. 


Hal', or hald, an abiding place. 


Gillie, gillock, diminutive of gill. 


Greet, to shed tears, to weep; 


Hale, or haill, whole, tight, heal- 


Gilpey, a half-grown, half-inform- 


greetin', weeping. 


thy. 


ed boy or girl, a romping lad, 


Grey -neck-quill, a quill unfit for a 


Hallan, a particular partition -wall 


a hoyden. 


pen. 


in a cottage, or more pro- 


Gimmer, an ewe two years old, a 


Griens, longs, desires. 


perly a seat of turf at <^be 


contemptuous term for a wo- 


Grieves, stewards. 


outside. 


man. 


Grippit, seized. 


Hallowmass, Hallow-eve, 31st Oc- 


Gin, if, against. 


Groanin-IIaut, drink for the cum- 


tober. 


Gipeey, a young girl. 


mers at a lying-in. 


Holy, holy; "haly-pool," holy 


Girdle, a round iron plate on 


Groat, to get the whistle of one's 


well with healing qualities. 


which oat-cake is fired. 


groat; to play a losing game. 


Hame, home. 


Qim, to grin, to twist the features 


to feel the consequences of 


Hammered, the noise of feet liks 


in rage, agony, Ac; grin- 


one's folly. 


the din of hammers. 


ning. 


Groset, a gooseberry. 


Han's breed, hand's breadth. 


3izz, a periwig, the face. 


Grumph, a grunt, to grunt. 


Hanks, thread as it comes from 


Glaikit, inattentive, foolish. 


Grumphie, Grumphin, a sow; the 


the measuring reel, quantj 


■ila-'ve, a sword. 


snorting of an angry pig. 


ties, Ac. 


GUizie, glittering, smooth, like 


Grun', ground. 


Hansel-throne, throne when firad 


glass. 


Grunstone, a grindstone. 


occupied by a king. 


GUumtd, grasped, snatched at 


Gruntle, the phiz, the snout, a 


Hap, an outer garment, mantle, 


eagerly. 


grunting noise. 


plaid, &c. ; to wrap, to cover, 


Girran, a poutherie girran, a little 


Grunzie, a mouth which pokes 


to hap. 


vigorous animal; a horse 


out like that of a pig. 


Harigals, heart, liver, and lighta 


rather old, but yet active 


Grushie, thick, of thriving growth. 


of an animal. 


when heated. 


Gude, guid, guids, the Supreme 


Hap-shackled, when a fore ana 


Gled, a hawk. 


Being, good, goods. 


hind foot of a ram are fastened 


Gleg,' sharp, ready. 


Gude auld-kas-been, was once ex- 


together to prevent leaping. 


Gley, a squint, to squint; a-gley, 


cellent. 


he is said to be hap-shackled. 


off at a side, wrong. 


Guid-mnrnin*, good-morrow. 


A wife is called " the kirk' 


Gleyde, an old horse. 


Guid-e'en, good evening. 


hap-shackle." 


Olib-gabbit, that speaks smoothly 


Guid/ather and guidmother, father- 


Happer, a hopper, the hopper oi 


• and readily. 


in-law, and mother-in-law. 


a mill. 



638 



C^LOSSARY. 



B-Kt;pping, hopping. 

Hap-attp-an'-loup, hop, step, and 
leap. 

Harhit, hearkened. 

Ham, a very coarse linen. 

Hash, a fellow who knows not how 
to act with propriety. 

Hastit, hastened. 

Hand, to hold. 

Harghs, low-lying, rich land, 
valieys. 

Baurl, to drag, to pull violently. 

Uaurlin, tearing off, puUitig 
roughly. 

liaoer-hical, oatmeal. 

Haverll, a half-witted person, half- 
witted, one who habitually 
talks in a foolish or incohe- 
rent manner. 

Havins, good manners, decorum, 
good sense. 

Hawkie, a cow, properly one with 
a white face, 

Jeapit, heaped. 

ffeulsome, healthful, wholesome. 

Hearse, hoarse. 

Heafher, heath. 
i Hech, oh strange ! an exclamation 

during heavy work. 
I Hecht, promised, to foretell some- 
i thing that is to be got or 

; given, foretold, the thing fore- 

told, offered. 

Heckle, a board in which are fixed 
a number of sharp steel 
prongs upright for dressing 
hemp, flax, <fcc. 

Hee bulou, words used to soothe a 
child. 

Heels-oiore-gowdie, topsy-turvy, 
turned the bottom upwards. 

Heeze, to elevate, to rise, to lift. 

Helliin, the rudder or helm. 

Herd, to tend flocks, one who 
tends flocks. 

Herrin', a herring. 

Herry, to plunder j most properly 
to plunder birds' nests. 

Herrytnent, plundering, devasta- 
tion. 

Hersel-hirsel, a flock of sheep, 
also a herd of cattle of any 
sort. 

Het, hot, heated. 

Hengh, a crag, a ravine; coal- 
hev.gh, a coal-pit; lowin heugh, 
a blazing pit. 

Elilch, hilchin', to halt, halting. 

'^iuey^ honey. 

Hing, to hang. 

li\yk', to walk crazily, tc walk 
lamely, t" creep. 

Bu't^rt^ dry, chapt, barren. 

Hitch t, a loop, made a knot. 

Hizzie, huzzy, a young girl. 

Hoddin, the motion of a husband- 
man riding on a cart-horse, 
humble. 

lioddin-gray, woollen cloth of a 
coarse quality, made by min- 
gling one black fleece with a 
dozen white ones. 

doggie, a twc -year-old sheep. 

'Jog-icon ^ a f^istanee line if curl- 



ing drawn across the rink. 

When a stone fails to cross it, 

a cry is raised of " A hog, a 

hog !" and it is removed. 
Eog-8houther, a kind of horse-play 

by justling with the shoulder ; 

to justle. 
Eoodie-craio, a blood crow, corbie. 
Hool, outer skin or case, a nutshell, 

a pea-husk. 
Hoolie, slowly, leisurely. 
Hoard, a hoard, to hoard. 
Hoordit, hoarded. 
Horn, a spoon made of horn. 
Horniey one of the many names 

of the devil. 
Host, or hoast, to cough. 
Hostin, coughing. 
Hotch'd, turned topsy-turvy, 

blended, ruined, moved. 
Houghmagandie, loose behaviour. 
Howlet, an owl. 
Housie, diminutive of house. 
Hove, Jioved, to heave, to swell. 
Howdie, a midwife. 
Howe, hollow, a hollow or dell. 
Hoioehackit, sunk in the back, 

spoken of a horse. 
Howff, a house of resort. 
HotoJe, to dig. 
HotoJcit, digged. 
Howlcin', digging deep. 
Hoy, hoy't, to urge, urged. 
Hoyse, a pull upwards. " Hoyse a 

creel," to raise a basket; hence 

"hoisting creels." 
Hoyte, to amble crazily. 
Hughoc, diminutive of Hughie, as 

Hughie is of Hugh. 
Hums and hankers, mumbles and 

seeks to do what he cannot 

perform. 
Hunkers, kneeling and falling back 

on the hams. 
Hurcheon, a hedgehog. 
Hurdles, the loins, the crupper. 
Hushion, a cushion, also a stock- 
ing wanting the foot. 
Huchyalled, to move with a hilch. 



Icher, an ear of com. 
leroe, a great grandchild. 
Ilk, or ilka, each, every. 
lll-deedie, mischievous. 
El-willie, ill-natured, malicious, 

niggardly. 
Ingine, genius, ingenuity. 
Ingle, fire, fireplace. 
Ingle -loxo, light from the fire, flame 

from the hearth. 
I rede ye, I advise ye, I warn ye. 
Tse, I shall or will. 
Ither, other, one another. 

J. 
Jad, jade; also a familiar term 

among country folks for a 

giddy young girl. 
Jauk, to dally, to trifle. 
Jaukin', trifling, dallying. 
Jauner, talking, and not always 

to the purpose. 



Jaup, a jerk of water; to jerk, at 
agitated water. 

Jaw, coarse raillery, to pour onxt 
to shut, to jerk as water. 

Jillet, a jilt, a giddy girl. 

Jimp, to jump, slender in th« 
waist, handsome. 

Jink, to dodge, to turn a, corner j 
a sudden turning, a corner. 

Jink an' diddle, moving to music^ 
motion of a fiddler's elbow. 
Starting here and there with 
a tremulous movement. 

Jinker, that turns quickly, a gay 
sprightly girl. 

Jinkin', dodging, the quick motion 
of the bow on the fiddle. 

Jirt, a jerk, the emission of water, 
to squirt. 

Jocteleg, a kind of knife. 

Jouk, to stoop, to bow the head, to 
conceal. 

Jow, to joio, a verb, which in 
eludes both the swinging mo- 
tion and pealing sound of a 
large bell; also the undula- 
tion of water. 

Jundie, to justle, a push with the 
elbow. 

K. 

Kae, a daw. 

Kail, colewort, a kind of broth. 
Kailrunt, the stem of colewort. 
Kain, fowls, &c., paid as rent by a 

farmer. 
Kehars, rafters. 
Kebbuck, a cheese. 
Keckle, joyous cry; to cackle as a 

hen. 
Keek, a keek, to peep. 
Kelpies, a sort of mischievous 

water-spirit, said to haunt 

fords and ferries at night, es- 
pecially in storms. 
Ken, to know; ken'd or ken't, 

knew. 
Kennin, a small matter. 
Ket-Ketty, matted, a fleece of 

wool. 
Kiaught, carking, anxiety, to be 

in a flutter. 
Kilty to truss up the clothes. 
Kimmer, a young girl, a gossip. 
Kin', kindred. 
Kin', kind. 
King's-hood, a certain part of tha 

entrails of an ox. 
Kintra, kintrie, country. 
Kirn, the harvest supper, a churn, 
Kirsen, to christen, to baptize. 
Kist, chest, a shop-counter. 
Kitchen, anything that eats with 

bread, to serve for soup, 

gravy. 
Kittle, to tickle, ticklish. 
Kittling, a young cat. The ace 

of diamonds is called amo^T^ 

rustics the kittlin's e'e. 
Knaggie, like knags, or points oi 

rocks. 
Knappin-hammer, a hammer foi 

breaking stones; knap, tC 

strike cr break. 





GLOSSARY. 


537 


Khvrlin, crojked but strong, 


LinUtchite, a linnet, flaxen. 


Mawin, mowing ; maun, mo;v ad, 


knotty. 


Loan, the place of milking. 


maw'd, mowed. 


Knowe, a small, round hillock, a 


Loaning, lane. 


Mawn, a small basket, without a 


knoll. 


Loof, the palm of tie hand. 


handle. 


Kuitile, to cuddle; huitlin, cud- 


Loot, did let. 


Meere, a mare. 


dling, fondling. 


Looves, the plural of loof. 


Melancholious, mc.urnful. 


Kye, cows. 


Losh man! rustic exclamation 


Melder, a load of corn, &c., sent te 


Kyle, a district in Ayrshire. 


modified from Lord man. 


the mill to be ground. 


Kyte, the beUy. 

Xythe, to discover, to show one's 


Loun, a fellow, a ragamuflBn, a 


Mell, to be intimate, to meddle, 


woman of easy virtue. 


also a mallet for pounding 


86. f. 


Loup, leap, startled with pain. 


barley in a stone trough. 




Louper-like, lan-louper, a stranger 


Melvie, to soil with meal. 


L. 


of a suspected character. 


Men', to mend. 




Lowe, a flame. 


Mense, good manners, decorum. 


i^hour, thrash. . 


Lowin', flaming ; lowin-drouth, 


Menseless, ill-bred, rude, impudent 


Laddie, diminutive of lad. 


burning desire for drink. 


Merle, the blackbird. 


Laggen, the angle between the 


Lofcrie, abbreviation of Lawrence. 


Messin, a small dog. 


side and the bottom of a 


Lowse, to loose. 


Atiddin, a dunghill. 


wooden dish. 


Lowsed, unbound, loosed. 


Middin-creels, dung-baskets, pan* 


Laigh, low. 


Lug, the ear. 


niers in which horses carry 


Lairing, lairie, wading, and sink- 


Lug of the law, at the judgment- 


manure. 


ing in snow, mud, Ac, miry. 


seat. 


Middin-hole, a gutter at the bot- 


Laitk, loath, impure. 


Lngget, having a handle. 


tom of a dunghill. 


Laith/u', bashful, sheepish, ab- 


Luggie, a small wooden dish, with 


Milkin'-shiel, a place where cows 


stemious. 


a handle. 


or ewes are brought to ba 


Lallans, Scottish dialect, Low- 


Lum, the chimney; lum-head, 


milked. 


lands. 


chimney-top. 


Mim, prim, affectedly meek. 


Lambie, diminutive of lamb. 


Lunch, a large piece of cheese. 


Mim-mou'd, gentle-mouthed. 


Lammas moon, harvest-moon. 


flesh, Ac. 


Min', to remember. 


Lampit, a kind of shell-fish, , a 


Lunt, a column of smoke, to saoke. 


Minawae, minuet. 


limpet. 


to walk quickly. 


, Mind't, mind it, resolved, intend 


Lan', land, estate. 


Lyart, of a mixed colour, gray. 


ing, remembered. 


Lan'-afore, foremost horse in the 




Minnie, mother, dam. 


plough. 


M. 


3Iirk, dark. 


Lan'-ahiji, hindmost horse in the 




Misca', to abuse, to call names; 


plough. 


Mae, and mair, more. 


mieea'd, abused. 


Lane, lone ; my lane, thy lane, Ac, 


Maggofs-meat, food for the worms. 


Mischanter, accident. 


myself alone. 


Mahoun, Satan. 


Misleard, mischievous, unmaii^ 


Lanely, lonely. 


Mailen, a farm. 


neriy. 


Lang, long ; to think lang, to long. 


Maiet, most, almost. 


Misteuk, mistook. 


to weary. 


Maistly, mostly, for the greater 


Mitker, mother. 


Lap, did leap. 


part. 


Mixtie-maxtie, confusedly mi.ted. 


Late and air, late and early. 


Ma7<^, to make ; makin', making. 


mish-masjti. 


Lave, the rest, the remainder, the 


Mally, Molly, Mary. 


Moistify, moistified, to moisten, to 


others. 


Mang, among. 


soak; moistened, soaked. 


Laverock, the lark. 


Manse, the house of the parish 


Mons-meg, a large piece of ord- 


Lawlan', lowland. 


minister is called " the 


nance, to be seen at the Castla 


Lay my dead, attribute my death. 


Manse." 


of Edinburgh, composed of 


Leal, loyal, true, faithful. 


Manteele, a mantle. 


iron bars welded together and 


Lear, learning, lore. 


Mark, marks. This and several 


then hooped. 


Lce-lang, live-long. 


other nouns which in Eng- 


Mools, earth. 


Leehome luve, happy, gladsome 


lish require an « to form the 


Mony, or monie, many. 


love. 


plural, are in Scotch, like the 


Moop, to nibble as a sheep. 


Leeze m*_ a phrase of congratula- 


words sheep, deer, the same 


Moorlan, of or belonging to moort, 


tory endearment; I am happy 


in both numbers. 


Morn, the next day, to-morrow. 


in thee or proud of thee. 


Mark, merk, a Scottish coin, value 


Mou, the mouth. 


i»ter, a three-pronged and barb- 


thirteen shillings and four- 


Moudiwort, a molo. 


ed da't for striking fish. 


pence. 


Mousie, diminutive of m'^'is*. 


ih, did laugh. 
k, a look, to look. 


Marled, party-coloured. 


Mtickle, or mickle, great, big, 


3Iar^8 year, the year 1715. Called 


much. 


'tf., castrated. 


Mar's year from the rebel- 


Muses-stank, muses-rill, a stank, 


% licket, beat, thrashen. 


lion of Erskine, Earl of 


slow-flowing water. 


, sky, firmament. 


Mar. 


Mttsie, diminutive of muse. 


htly, sneeringly, to sneer at, to 


Martial chuck, the soldier's :amp- 


Muslin-knil, broth, composed sim 


undervalue. 


comrade, female companion. 


ply of water, shelled ban 


^ilt, a ballad, a tune, to sing. 


Mashlum, mixed corn. 


ley, and greens ; thin p( o> ] 


Limmer, a kept mistress, a strum- 


Mask, to mash, as malt, <fec., to in- 


broth. 


pet 


fuse. 


Mntchkin, an English pint. 


Limp't, limped, hobbled. 


Maskin-pat, teapoi. 


Mysel, myself. 


Link, to trip along; linkin, trip- 


Maukin, a hare. 




ping along. 


Maun, mauna, must, must not. 


N. 


Linn, a waterfall, a cascade. 


Maut, malt. 


XI. 


Lint, flax ; lint i tl¥ hell flax in 


Mavis, the thrnRh, 


Na\ no, not, nor. 


fewer. 


Maw, to mow. 


Nae, or na, no, not anjr- 

1 



&38 


GLOSSARY. 




Naethi ng,' or naitUng, nothing. 


Phraiain, flattering. 


Ramatam, thoughtless, forwaru. 


Naig, a horse, a nag. 


Pibroch, a martial air. 


Randie, a scolding sturdy beggai 


Nane, none. 


Pickle, a small quantity, one grain 


a shrew. 


Nappy, ale, to be tipsy. 


of corn. 


Rantin', joyous. 


Neglecldt, neglected. 


Pigmy -scraper, little fiddler; a 


Raploch, properly a coarse clotl^^ 


Neebor, a neighbour. 


term of contempt for a bad 


but used for coarse. 


Neuh, nook. 


player. 


Rarely, excellently, very well. 


Neist, next. 


Pint-stoup, a two-quart measure. 


Rash, a rush ; rash-buae, a bush o! 


Nieve, nief, the fist. 


Pine, pain, uneasiness. 


rushes. 


Nievefu', handful. 


Pingle, a small pan for warming 


Ratton, a rat. 


Niffery an exchange, to barter. 


children's sops. 


Raucle, rash, stout, feailess^ reek* 


Niger, a negro. 


Plack, an old Scotch coin, the 


less. 


Nine-tailed cat, a hangman's whip. 


third part of an English 


Raught, reached. 


Nit, a nut. 


penny. 


Raw, a row. 


Norland, of or belonging to the 


Plackless, pennyless, without mo- 


Rax, to stretch. 


north. 


ney. 


Ream, cream, to cream. 


■ Notic't, noticed. 


Plaidie, diminutive of plaid. 


Reamin', brimful, frothing. 


Nowte, black cattle. 


Platie, diminutive of plate. 


Reave, take by force. 




Plew, or pleugh, a plough. 


Rebute, to repulse, rebuke. 


0. 


Pliakie, a trick. 


Reck, to heed. 


0\ of. 


Plumroae, primrose. 


Rede, counsel, to counsel, to dis- 


O'ergang, overbearingness, to treat 


Pock, a meal-bag. 


course. 


with indignity, literally to 


Poind, to seize on cattle, or take 


Red-peata, burning turfs. 


tread. 


the goods as the laws of Scot- 


Red-wat-ahod, walking in blood 


O'erlay, an upper cravat. 


land allow, for rent, «&c. 


over the shoe-tops. 


Ony, or onie, any. 


Poorteth, poverty. 


Red-wud, stark mad. 


Or, is often used for ero, before. 


Poaie, a nosegay, a garland. 


Ree, half drunk, fuddled; a re* 


Orra-duddies, superfluous rags, 


Pou, pou'd, to pull, pulled. 


yaud, a wild horse. 


old clothes. 


Pouk, to pluck. 


Reek, smoke. 


O't, of it. 


Pouasie, a hare or cat. 


Reekin', smoking. 


Ourie, drooping, shivering. 


Pouee, to pluck with the hand. 


Reekit, smoked, smoky. 


Oursel, ourseU, ourselves. 


Pout, a polt, a chick. 


Reeatit, stood restive ; stunted. 


Outlers, outliers ; cattle unhoused. 


Pou't, did pull. 


withered. 


Ower, owre, over. 


Poutherey, fiery, active. 


Remead, remedy. 


Owre-hip, striking with a 'fore- 


Pouthery, like powder. 


Requite, requited. 


hammer by bringing it with 


Pow, the head, the skull. 


Reatricked, restricted. 


a swing over the hip. 


Pownie, a little horse, a pony. 


Rew, to smile, look affectionately, 


Owsen, oxen. 


Powther, or panther, gunpowder. 


tenderly. 


Oxtered, carried or supported un- 


Preclair, supereminent. 


Ricklea, shocks of corn, stocks. 


der the arm. 


Preen, a pin. 


Riddle, instrument for purifying 




Prent, printing, print. 


corn. 


P. 


Prie, to taste ; prie'd, tasted. 


Rief-randiea, men who take the 




Prief, proof. 


property of others, accom- 


Pack, intimate, familiar: twelve 


Prig, to cheapen, to dispute ; prig- 


panied by violence and rude 


stone of wool. 


gin, cheapening. 


words. 


Paidle, paidlen, to walk with diffi- 


Primaie, demure, precise. 


Rig, a ridge. 


culty, as if in water. 


Propone, to lay down, to propose. 


Rin, to run, to melt ; rinnin', run- 


Painch, paunch. 


Pund, pund o' tow, pound, pound 


ning. 


Paitrich, a partridge. 


weight of the refuse of flax. 


Rink, the course of the stones, a 


Pang, to cram. 


Pyet, a magpie. 


term in curling on ice. 


Parle, courtship. 


Pyle, apyle, o' caff, a single grain 


Rip, a handful of unthreshed com. 


Parishen, parish. 


of chaff. 


Ripples, pains in the back and 


Parritch, oatmeal pudding, a 


Pyatle, epistle. 


loins, sounds which usher in 


well-known Scotch drink. 




death. 


Pat, did put, a pot. 


Q. 


Ripplin-kame, Instrument for 


Pattle, or pettle, a small spade to 


dressing flax. 


1 clean the plough. 


Quat, quit. 


Riakit, a noise like the tearing of 


Paughty, proud, haughty. 


Quaki the cry of a duck. 


roots. 


- Pauky, cunning, sly. 


Quech, a drinking-cup made of 


Rockin', a denomination for a 


Pay't, paid, beat. 


wood with two handles. 


friendly visit. In former 


Peat-reek, the smoke of burning 


Quey, a cow from one to two years 


times young women met with 


turf, a bitter exhalation, 


old, a heifer. 


their dista.fts during the win« 


whisky. 


Quinea, queans. 


ter evenings, to sing, and spin, 


P«^^, to fetch the breath shortly, 


Quakin, quaking. 


and be merry ; these were 


as in an asthma. 




caUed«rockings." 


Pechan, the crop, the stomach. 


R. 


Roke, distaff. 


Pechin, respiring with difficulty. 




Rood, stands likewise for the plu- 


Pennie, riches. 


Ragweed, herb-ragwort. 


ral, roods. 


Pet, a domesticated sheep, Ac, a 


Raihle, to rattle, nonsense. 


Roon, a shred, the selvage of wool 


favourite. 


Rair, to roar. 


len cloth. 


Pettle, to cherish. 


Raize, to madden, to inflame. 


Roose, to praise, to commend. 


PUlaheg, the kilt. 


Ramfeezled, fatigued, overpower- 


Roun', round, in the circle o{ 


Fhraise, fair fjpeeches, flattery, to 


ed. 


neighbourhood. 


flatter. 


Rampin', raging. 


Roupet, hoarse, as with a cold. 



GLOSSARY. 



589 



ff(HO, to roll, to rap, to roll as 
water. 

Roto't, rolled, wrapped. 

Rotate, to low, to bellow. 

Roicth, plenty. 

Roictin', lowing. 

Hozety rosin. 

Rumble-gumption, rough common- 
serae. 

Bun-deiU, downright devils. * 

Hung^ a cudgel. 

S'inr, the stem of colewort or cab- 
bage. 

Bv-nkled, wrinkled. 

Huth, a won^n's name, the book 
so "ia'led, sorrow. 

Rykcy ToaCii. 

S. 

Sae, so. 

Saft, soft 

(SswV, to servn, a sore j eairie, sor- 
rowful. 

Stoirly, sorely. 

Sair't, served. 

Sarh, a shirt. 

Snrki't, provided in shirts. 

Saugk, willow. 

Saugh-icoodies, withies, made of 
willows, now supplanted by 
ropes and chains. 

Saul, soul. 

Saumont, ralmon. 

Saunt, sawtet, saint; to varnish. 

Saut, salt. 

Saw, to sow. 

Smcin', sowing. 

Sax, six. 

Scaud, to scald. 

Scyuld, to scold. 

Scaiir, apt to be scared; a preci- 
pitous bank of earth which 
the stream has washed red. 

Scarcl, a scold. 

Scone, a kind of bread. 

Sconner, a loathing, to loath. 

Scraich and Scriegh, to scream, as 
a hen or partridge. 

Screed, to tear, a rent; screeding, 
tearing. 

Scr^De, scrieven, to glide softly, 
gleesomely along. 

Scrimp, to scant. 

Scrimpiet, scant, scanty. 

Scroggie, covered with underwood, 
t-ashy. 

Sculdudrey, fornication. 

Seizin', seizing. 

SkV, self; a body's eeV, one's self 
alone. 

Se'ift, did sell. 

&«', to send 

Servan', servant. 

Settlin', settling; to get a settlin', 
to be frighted into quietness. 

Set», sets off, goes away. 

Shachlet-feet, ill-shaped. 

Skair'd, a shred, a shard. 

Shangan, a stick cleft at one end 
for pulling the tail of a dog, 
Ac, by way of mischief, or to 
frighten him away. 

Skank-it, walk it ; shanks, legs. 

^•'-'j.l, shallow. 



Shaver, a humorous wag, a barber. 

Shavie, to do an ill turn. 

Shaio, to show ; a small wood in a 
hollow place. 

Sheep-shank, to think one's self nae 
sheep-shank, to be conceited. 

Sherra-muir, Sheriff-Muir; the fa- 
mous bittle of, 1715. 

Sheugh, a ditch, a trench, a sluice. 

Shiel, shealing, a shepherd's cot- 
tage. 

Shill, shrill. 

Shog, a shock, a push off at one 
side. 

Shoo, ill to please, ill to fit. 

Shool, a shovel. 

Shoon, shoes. 

Sho7-€, to offer, to threaten. 

Shor d, half offered and threat- 
ened. 

Shouther, the shoulder. 

Shot, one traverse of the shuttle 
from side to side of the web. 

Sic, such. 

Sicker, sure, steady. 

Sideliais, sideling, slanting. 

Silken-snood, a fillet of silk, a 
token of virginity. 

Siller, silver, money, white. 

Simmer, summer. 

Sin, a son. 

Sinsyne, since then. 

Skaith, to damage, to injure, in- 
jury. 

Skeigh, proud, nice, saucy, met- 

• tied. 

Skeigh, shy, maiden coyness. 

Skellum, a noisy reckless fellow. 
I, to strike, to slap ; to walk 
with a smart tripping step, a 
smart stroke. 

Skelpi-limmer, a technical term in 
female scolding. 

Skelpin, skelpit, striking, walking 
rapidly, literally striking the 
ground. 

Skinklin, thin, gauzy, scaltery. 

Skirling, shrieking, crying. 

Skirl, to cry, to shriek shrilly. 

SkirVt, shrieked. 

Sklent, slant, to run aslant, to de- 
viate 'from truth. 

Sklented, ran, or hit, in an oblique 
direction. 

Skouth, vent, free action. 

Skreigh, a scream, to scream, the 
first cry uttered by a child. 

Skyte, a worthless fellow, to slide 
rapidly off. 

Skyrin, party-coloured, the checks 
of the tartan. 

Slae, sloe. 

Slade, did slide. 

Slap, a gate, a breach in a fence. 

Slaw, slow. 

Slee, sleest, sly, slyest. 

Sleekit, sleek, sly. 

Sliddery, slippery. 

Slip-shod, smooth shod. 

Sloken, quench, slake. 

Slype, to fall over, as a wet furrow 
from the plough. 

Slypet-o'er, fell over with a slow 
reluctant motion. 



Sma', small. 

Smeddum, dust, powder, mettl<9( 

sense, sagacity. 

Smiddy, smithy. 

Smirking, good-natured, winking. 

Smoor, smoored, to smother, smo« 
thered. 

Smoutie, smutty, obscene ; smoutU 
phiz, sooty aspect. 

Smytrie, a numerov« collection of 
small indiviauals. 

Snapper, mistake. 

Snash, abuse. Billingsgate, imper- 
tinence. 

Snaio, snow, to snow. 

Snaw-broo, melted snow. 

Snawie, snowy. 

Snap, to lop, to cut off. 

Sned-besoms, to cut brooms. 

Sneeshin, snuff. 

Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box. 

Snell and snelly, bitter, biting? 
snellest, bitterest. 

Snick-drawing, trick, contriving, 

Snick, the latchet of a door. 

Snirt, snirtle, concealed laughter, 
to breathe the nostrils in a 
displeased manner. 

Snool, one whose spirit is broken 
with oppressive slavery; to 
submit tamely, to sneak. 

Snoove, to go smoothly and con- 
stantly, to sneak. 

Snowk, snowkit, to scent or snuff 
as a dog, scented, snuffed. 

Sodger, a soldier. 

Sonsie, having sweet engagin^j 
looks, lucky, jolly. 

Soom, to swim. 

Souk, to suck, to drink long and 
enduringly. 

Souple, flexible, swift. 

Soupled, suppled. 

Souther, to solder. 

Souter, a shoemaker. 

Sowens, the fine flour remaining 
among the seeds of oatmeai- 
made into an agreeable pud- 
ding. 

Sowp, a spoonful, a small quantitiy 
of anything liquid. 

Sototh, to try over a tune with a 
low whistle. * 

Spae, to prophesy, to divine. 

Spails, chips, splinters. 

Spaul, a limb. 

Spairge, to clash, to soil, as with 
mire. 

Spates, sudden floods. 

Spaviet, having the spavin. 

Speat, a sweeping torrent aftea 
rain or thaw. 

Speel, to climb. 

Spence, the parlour of a farmhouB« 
or cottage. 

Spier, to ask, to inquire; spiert^ 
inquired. 

Spinnin-graith, wheel and rok« 
and lint. 

Splatter, to splutter, a splutter. 

Spleughan, a tobacco-pouch. 

Splore, a frolic, noise, riol 

Sprachled, scrambled. 

Sprattle, to scramble. 



540 


GLOSSARY. 




SprecMed, spotted, speckled. 


Stook, stocked, a shock of com, 


Tangle, a sea-weed used as salad 


Spring, a quick air in music, a 


made into shocks. 


Tap, the top. 


Scottish reel. 


Stot, a young bull or ox. 


Tapetless, heedless, foolish. 


Sprit, apret, a tough-rooted plant 


Stound, sudden pang of the heart. 


Targe, targe them, tightly, crosSi 


something like rushes, joint- 


Stoup, or stowp, a kind of high 


question them severely. 


ed-leaved rush. 


narrow jug or dish with a 


Tarroio, to murmur at one's allow. 


Sprittie, full of spirits. 


handle for holding liquids. 


ance. 


Spunk, fire, mettle, wit, spark. 


Stowre, dust, more particularly 


Tarry-breeks, a sailor. 


Spunkie, mettlesome, fiery; will 


dust in motion ; stowrie, dusty. 


Tassie, a small measure for liquor 


o' the wisp, or ignis fatuus j 


Stownlins, by stealth. 


Taidd, or tald, told. 


the devil. 


Stown, stolen. 


Taupie, a foolish, thoughtleM 


%purtle, a stick used in making 


Stoyte, the walking of a rl-nnVen 


young person. 


oatmeal pudding or porridge, 


man. 


Tauted, or tautle, matted together 


a notable Scottish dish. 


Straek, did strike. 


(spoken of hair and wool). 


Squad, a crew or party, a squad- 


Strae, straw; to die a fair strae 


Tawie, that allows itself peaceably 


ron. 


death, to die in bed. 


to be handled (spoken of a 


Squatter, to flutter in water, as 


Straik, to stroke ; straiket, stroked. 


cow, horse, &c.) 


a wild-duck, <fec. 


Strappen, tall, handsome, vigorous. 


Teat, a small quantity. 


Squattle, to sprawl in the act of 


Strath, low alluvial land, a holm. 


Teethless baiotie, toothless cur. 


hiding. 


Straught, straight. 


Teethless gab, a mouth wanting 


Squeel, a scream, a screech, to 


Streek, stretched, to stretch. 


the teeth, an expression of 


scream. 


Striddle, to straddle. 


scorn. 


Stacker, to stagger. 


Stroan, to spout, to piss. 


Ten-hours-bite, a slight feed to 


Stack, a rick of corn, hay, peats. 


Stroup, the spout. 


the horse while in the yoke in 


Staggie, a stag. 


Studdie, the anvil. 


the forenoon. 


Staig, a two year-old horse. 


Stumpie, diminutive of stump; a 


Tent, a field pulpit, heed, caution ; 


Stalwart, stately, strong. 


grub pen. 


to take heed. 


Stang, sting, stung. 


Strunt, spirituous liquor of any 


Tentie, heedful, cautious. 


Staa't, to stand; stan't^ did stand. 


kind ; to walk sturdily, to be 


Tentless, heedless, careless. 


Stane, stone. 


afironted. 


Tengh, tough. 


Stank, did stink, a pool of stand- 


Stuff, corn or pulse of any kind. 


Thack, thatch; thack an* rape, 


ing water, slow-moving water. 


Sturt, trouble ; to molest. 


clothing and necessaries. 


Sta.p, stop, stave. 


Startin, frighted. 


Thae, these. 


Stark, stout, potent. 


Styme, a glimmer. 


Thairms, small guts, fiddle-stringi. 


Startle, to run as cattle stung by 


Sucker, sugar. 


Thankit, thanked. 


the gadfly. 


Snd, should. 


Theekit, thatched. 


Staukin, stalking, walking dis- 


.Sugh, the continued rushing noise 


Thegither, together. 


dainfully, walking without an 


of wind or water. 


ThemseV, themselves. 


aim. 


Sumph, a pluckless fellow, with 


Thick, intimate, familiar. 


Staumrel, a blockhead, half-witted. 


little heart or soul. 


Thigger, crowding, make k. noise ] 


\ Staw, did steal, to surfeit. 


Suthron, Southern, an old name 


a seeker of alms. 


Stech, to cram the belly. 


of the English. 


Thir, these. 


Stechin, cramming. 


Swaird, sword. 


Thirl, to thrill. 


Steele, to shut, a stitch. 


^wall'd, swelled. 


Thirled, thrilled, vibrated. 


Steer, to molest, to stir. 


Swank, stately, jolly. 


Thole, to suffer, to endure. 


Sfeeve, firm, compacted. 


Swankie, or swanker, a tight strap- 


Thotce, a thaw, to thaw. 


Stell, a still. 


ping young fellow or girl. 


Thoioless, slack, lazy. 


Sten, to rear as a horse, to leap 


Swap, ^n e.ci;hi:,gv), ';v) ?jarter. 


Thrang, throng, busy, a crowd. 


suddenly. 


Swarfed, swooned. 


Thr apple, throat, windpipe. 


Stravagm, wandering without an 


Swat, did sweat. 


Tkraw, to sprain, to twist, to con- 


aim. 


Swatch, a sample. 


tradict. 


Stents, tribute, dues of any kind. 


Swats, drink, good ale, new ale or 


Thraioin', twisting, &c. 


Ste7/, steep ; styest, steepest. 


wort. 


Thrawn, sprained, twisted, con- 


Stibhle, stribble; stubble-rig, the 


Sweer, lazy, averse; dead-sweer, 


tradicted, contradiction. 


reaper in harvest who takes 


extremely averse. 


Threap, to maintain by dint '\f as- 


the lead. 


Siooor, swore, did swear. 


sertion. 


1 Stick-an'-stoio, totally, altogether. 


Swinge, to beat, to whip. 


Threshin', threshing ; thresMn*- 


S^ih-stilts, ^a. crutch; to limp, tc 


Swinke, to labour hard. 


tree, a flail. 


halt ; 'poles for crossing a 


Stcirlie, knaggy, full of knots. 


Threteen, thirteen. 


' river. 


ISioirl, a curve, an eddying blast 


Thristle, thistle. 


^xiapa'^t, the eighth part of a 


or pool, a knot in the wood. 


Through, to go on with, to makt 


Winchester bushel. 


Swith, get away. 


out. 


Sii' \ a cow or bullock a year 


Swither, to hesitate in choice, an 


Throuther, pell-mell, confusedlj 


old. 


irresolute wavering in choice. 


(through-ither). 


\Stotj:k, a plant of colewort, cab- 


Syeboio, a thick-necked onion. 


Thrum, sound of a spinning-wheel 


bages. 


Syne, since, ago, then. 


:n motion, the thread remain- 


^tockin', stocking; throwing the 




ing at the end of a web. 


stoch'n', when the bride and 


T. 


Thud, to make a loud intermitt«a< 


bridegroom are put into bed. 




noise. 


the former throws a stocking 


Tackets, broad-headed nails for 


Thummart, foumart, polecat. 


at random among the com- 


the heels of shoes. 


Thump it, thumped. 


pany, and the person whom 


Tae, a toe ; three-taed, having three 


Thysel', thyself. 


it falls on is the next that 


prongs. 


Ti'll't, to it. 


Triil be married. 


Tak, to take; takin, taking. 


Timmer, timber. 



GLOSSARY. 



Tine, to lose ; tint, lost. 


Twafaul, twofold. 


Wat, a man's upper dress ; a sort 


TSnkler, a tinker. 


Twin, to part. 


of mantle. 


Tip. a ram. 


Ticistle, twisting, the art of making 


Water-brose, brose made of meal 


Tippence, twopence, money. 


a rope. 


and water simply, without th« 


Tirl, to make a slight noise, to 


Tyke, a dog. 


addition of milk, butter, Ac. 


uncover. 


Tysday, Tuesday. 


Wattle, a twig, a wand. 


Tirlin', tirlet, uncovering. 




Wauble, to swing, to reel. 


Tither, the other. 


U. 


Waukin, waking, watching. 


Tittle, to whisper, to prate idly. 




Waukit, thickened as fullers do 


Tittlii, whispering. 


Unback'd filly, a young mare 


cloth. 


T:>cl^r, marriage portion; tocher 


hitherto unsaddled. 


Waukrife, not apt to sleep. 


hands, marriage bonds. 


XJnco, strange, uncouth, very, very 


Waur, worse, to worst. 


Tad, a fox. " Tod i' the fauld," 


great, prodigious. 


Waur't, worsted. 


fox in the fold. 


Uncos, news. 


Wean, a child. 


Toddle, to totter, like the walk of 


Unfauld, unfold. 


Weary-iciddle, toilsome contest of 


a child; todlen-dow, toddling 


Unkenn'd, unknown. 


life. 


dove. 


Unsicker, uncertain, wavering, in- 


Weason, weasand, windpipe. 


Too-fa', "Too fa' o' the nicht," 


secure. 


Weaven' the stocking, to knit 


when twilight darkens into 


Unskaithed, undamaged, unhurt. 


stockings. 


night; a building added, a 


Upo', upon. 


Weeder-olips, instrument for re- 


lean-to. 




moving weeds. 


Tbom, empty. 


V. 


Wee, little ; wee things, little onea, 


Toomed, emptied. 




wee bits, a small matter. 


Tcop. a ram. 


Vap'rin, -vapouring. 

Fau7i«t\, joy>t;.s, dtligM wliioi 


Weel. well ; weelfare, w«lfar«» 


Tob^, a tcaot. 


Weet, iMu, ?etnosij; t; xqu 


Tosie, warm and ruddy with 


cannot contain itself. 


We'se, we shall. 


warmth, good-looking, in- 


Vera, yqyj. 


Wha, who. 


toxicating. 


Yirl, a ring round a column, &c. 


Whaizle, to wheeze. 


Toun, a hamlet, a farmhouse. 


Vogie, vain. 


Whalpit, whelped. 


Tout, the blast of a horn or trum- 




Whang, a leathorn thong, a piec* 


pet, to blow a horn or trumpet. 


W. 


of cheese, bread, &c. 


Touzles, touzling, romping, ruffling 




Whare, where; whare'er, when- 


the clothes. 


Wa', wall ; wa's, walls. 


ever. 


Toio, a rope. 


Wabster, a weaver. 


Wheep, to fly nimbly, to jerfc 


Toicmond, a twelvemonth. 


Wad, would, to bet, a bet, a 


penny-wheep, small-beer. 


Towzie, rough, shaggy. 


pledge. 


Whase, wha's, whose — who is. 


Toi/, a very old fashion of female 


Wadna, would not. 


WTiat reck, nevertheless. 


head-dress. 


Wadset, land on whicli money is 


Whid, the motion of a hare run- 


Toyte, to totter like old age. 


lent, a mortgage. 


ning, but not frighted — a lie. 


Trams, barrow-trams, the handles 


Wae, woe; waefu', sorrowful; 


Whidden, running as a hare o» 


of a barrow. 


wailing. 


coney. 


Transmugrified, transmigrated. 


Waefu' -woodte, hangman's rope. 


Whigmeleertes, whims, fancies^ 


metamorphosed. 


Waesucks! Wae'a me! Alas 1 


crotchets. 


Trashtrie, trash, rubbish. 


the pity ! 


Whilk, which. 


Trickle, full of tricks. 


Wa'fiower, wall-flower. 


Whingin', crying, complaining, 


Trig, spruce, neat. 


Waft, woof; the cross thread that 


fretting. 


Trimly, cleverly, excellently, in a 


goes from the shuttle through 


Wnirligigums, useless ornaments, 


seemly manner. 


the web. 


trifling appendages. 


Trinle, trintle, the wheel of a bar- 


Waifs an' crocks, stray sheep and 


Whissle, a whistle, to whistle. 


row, to roll. 


old ewes past breeding. 


Whisht, silence; to hold on^t 


Trinklin, trickling. 


Wair, to lay out, to expend. 


whist, to be silent. 


Troggers, troggin', wandering mer- 


Wale, choice, to choose. 


Whisk, whisket, to sweep, to lash. 


chants, goods to truck or dis- 


Wald, chose, chosen. 


Whiakin' beard, a beard like the 


pose of. 


Walie, ample, large, jolly, also an 


whiskers of a cat. 


Trow, to believe, to trust to. 


exclamation of distress. 


Whiskit, lashed, the motion ot a 


Trowth, truth, a petty oath. 


Wame, the belly. 


horse's tail removing flies. 


Trysts, appointments, love meet- 


Wamefu', a bellyful. 


Whitter, a,hea,Tty draught of liquor 


ings, cattle shows. 


Wanehansie, unlucky. 


Whittle, a knife. 


Tumbler-wheels, the wheels of a 


Wanrest, wanrestfu', restless, un- 


Whunstane, a whinstone. 


kind of low cart. 


restful. 


Wi', with. 


Tug, raw hide, of which in old 


Wark, work. 


Wick, to strike a stone in an ob- 


time plough-traces were fre- 


Wark-lume, % tool to work with. 


lique direction, a term ia 


quently made. 


Warld' s-worm, a miser. 


curling. 


Tug or tow, either in leather or 


Warle, or warld, world. 


Widdifu, twisted like a withy, <m 


rope. 


'R'ar^oc^, a wizard; warlock-knowe, 


who merits hanging. 


Tulzie, a quarrel, to quarrel, to 


a knoll where warlocks once 


Wiel, a small whirlpool. 


«ght. 


held tryste. 


Wifie-wifikie, a diminutive oi en 


Twa, two ; tica-fald, twofold. 


Warly, worldly, eager in amassing 


rearing name for wife 


Twa-three, a few. 


wealth. 


Wight, stout, enduring. 


Twad, it would. 


Warran', a warrant, to warrant 


Willy art-gloioer, a bewildered dis- 


J\val, twelve; twalpennie worth, 


Warsle, wrestle. 


mayed stare. 


a small quantity, a penny- 


Warsl'd, or warst'led, wrestled. 


Wimple-womplet, to meander, m^ 


worth. — N. B. One penny 


Wastrie, prodigality. 


andered, to enfold. 


Enjiliah is 12d. Scotch. 


Wat, wet ; / wat — / wot — I know. 


Wimplin, waving, meandering. 



54J 



GLOSSARY. 



WWy to wind, to winnow. 


Fber-6o6«,the garter knitted below 


Fcarn«, longs much. 


Winnin' -thread, putting thread 


the knee with a couple of loops. 


Yealings, bom in the same 7«u^ 


into hanks. 


Wordy, worthy. 


coevals. 


Win'i, winded as a bottom of yarn. 


WorBet, worsted. 


Tear, is used both for singmki 


Win', wind. 


Wrack, to tease, to vex. 


and plural, years. 


Win, live. 


Wud, wild, mad; wuci-mac?, dis- 




Winna, will not. 


tracted. 


Yerk, to lash, to jerk. 


Winnoch, a window. 


Wumhle, a wimble. 


Yerket, jerked, lashed* 


Winsome, hearty, vaunted, gay. 


Wraith, a spirit, a ghost, an ap- 


Yestreen, yesternight. 


Wintle, a staggering motion, to 


parition exactly like a living 


Yett, a gate. * 


stagger, to reel. 


person, whose appearance is 


Yeuk's, itches. 


Wise, to wish. 


said to forbode the person's 


Yill, ale. 


Withouten, without. 


approaching death ; also 


Yird, yirded, earth, earthed, bv 


Wizened, hide-bound, dried, 


wrath. 


ried. 


shrunk. 


Wrang, wrong, to wrong. 


Yokin', yoking. 


Winze, a curse or imprecation. 


Wreeth, a drifted heap of snow. 


Yont, ayont, beyond. 


Wonner, a wonder, a contemptuous 


Wyliecoat, a flannel vest. 
Wyte, blame, to blame. 


Yirr, lively. 


appellation. 


Yowe, an ewe. 


Woo', wool. 




Yowie, diminutive of yottw. 


Woo, to court, to make love to. 


Y. 


Yule, Christmas. 


Wxddie, a rope, more properly 


Ycf this pronoun ig Drtquently 




OHO of withs or willows. 


lued for tiioii. 





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